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SECTION  III 

THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

FROM    ITS    BEGINNING    TO    THE    PRESENT    DAY 


GENERAL    EDITOR 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER,  A.B. 

PROFESSOR  OF  DRAMATIC  LITERATURE 
IN  HARVARD  UNIVERSITY 


inaJviorato 

This  figure  from  the  engraved  title  page  of  Robert  Burton's  Anatomi  of 
Mehmcholy  shows  the  image  in  the  mind  of  the  writer  of  these  lines  about 
John  Ford: 

"  Deep  in  a  dump  John  Ford  alone  was  got 
With  folded  amies  and  melancholy  hat," 


'TIS  PITY  SHE'S  A  WHORE 

AND 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 

By  JOHN  FORD 


EDITED    BY 

S^'Pi-' SHERMAN,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH    IN    THE 
"university    of    ILLINOIS 


BOSTON,  U.  S.  A.,  AND  LONDON 
D.   C.   HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 


\fi\ 


COPYRIGHT,   1915,   BY  D.   C.   HEATH   &  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


ID5 


MAY  "7  1915  Tl 

?)CI.A401058 


^Bfosmpi^l? 


John  Ford  was  baptized  at  Ilsington  in  Devonshire  on  April  1 7, 
1586.  He  came  of  a  respectable  family  which  had  long  lived  in  this 
neighborhood.  His  father,  Thomas  Ford,  it  appears  from  Rymer's 
Foedera  (cited  by  GifFord)  was  in  the  commission  of  the  peace.  His 
mother  was  the  sister  of  Lord-chief-justice  Popham.  "  They  in  this 
county,"  says  Fuller  {Worthte%^  vol.  i,  p.  413,  1840),  "seem 
innated  with  a  genius  to  study  law  .  .  .  Devonshire  makes  a  feast 
of  such  who  by  the  practice  thereof  have  raised  great  estates." 
Ford's  relationship  to  Popham,  a  man  of  weight  and  influence  in 
the  reigns  of  both  Elizabeth  and  James  I,  may  be  presumed  to 
have  affected  his  choice  of  a  career.  For  though  it  is  probable  that 
he  matriculated  at  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  in  March  of  1601,"  we 
find  him  entered  in  November,  1602,  at  the  Middle  Temple,  of 
which  Popham  was  a  member  and  for  some  time  treasurer.  Ford's 
London  life,  even  after  he  became  a  well-recognized  dramatist,  re- 
mained closely  associated  with  the  Inns-of-Court.  In  Gray's  Inn  he 
had  a  cousin  John  Ford,  to  whom  he  was  deeply  attached,  and  who 
doubtless  opened  the  way  to  a  pleasant  fellowship  with  the  mem- 
bers of  his  own  house.  In  1629  Ford  dedicated  his  Lo-ver^s  Mel- 
ancholy "To  my  worthily  respected  friends,  Nathaniel  Finch,  John 
Ford  Esquires  j  Master  Henry  Blunt,  Master  Robert  Ellice,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  noble  society  of  Gray's  Inn."  In  1633  he  dedicated 
ho've  s  Sacrifice  *'  To  my  truest  friend,  my  worthiest  kinsman,  John 
Ford,  of  Gray's  Inn,  Esq. "  Commendatory  verses  for  this  play  were 
written  by  James  Shirley,  who  in  1 625  had  taken  up  his  residence 
at  Gray's  Inn. 

In  these  days  there  was  a  powerful  literary  leaven  in  the  Inns-of- 
Court.  It  is  necessary  only  to  mention  the  names  of  Bacon,  Mid- 
dleton,  Beaumont,  Sir  John  Davies,  John  Marston  in  order  to  sug- 
gest some  of  the  forces  that  tended  to  divert  young  men  from  the 

'  A  John  Ford  was  entered  under  that  date:  see  Dictionary  of 
National  Biography^  article  on  Ford  the  dramatist. 


vi  llBiograpl^^ 

severity  of  their  legal  studies  —  the  father  of  Marston,  who  lamented 
his  son's  seduction  by  the  stage,  had  vainly  bequeathed  to  his  heir 
his  law  books  in  the  Middle  Temple.  The  young  barrister  who 
passed  from  the  study  of  jurisprudence  to  the  study  and  profession  of 
letters  was  supported  by  many  distinguished  precedents.  Yet  for 
nearly  a  score  of  years  after  his  admission  to  the  Temple,  Ford  seems 
merely  to  have  dallied  with  literary  composition.  So  late  as  1629  in 
the  prologue  to  the  Lover''  s  Melancholy  he  assumes  an  air  of  patrician 
superiority  to  those  who  make  "the  noble  use  of  poetry  a  trade." 
Till  after  1620  his  work  may  well  have  been,  as  he  is  so  fond  of 
asserting  that  it  was,  the  fruit  of  his  leisure.    His  first  literary  venture, 

-"  Earners  Memorial,  1606,  is  a  long  elegiac  poem  on  the  death  of  the 
Earl  of  Devonshire  —  a  barely  tolerable  performance  inspired  by 
youthful  enthusiasm  and  a  desire  to  make  himself  known  as  a  poet  in 
polite  society.  Later  in  1 606  the  visit  of  the  King  of  Denmark  in  Eng- 
land gave  occasion  tor  his  Honour  Triumphant  or  the  Peers^  Challenge, 
a  romantic  treatise  in  prose  and  verse,  to  which  was  added  The  Mon- 
archs"  Meeting,  containing  three  poetical  pieces  in  honor  of  the 
Danish  sovereign.  This  pamphlet,  like  Fame^s  Memorial,  was  de- 
signed to  commend  its  author  to  the  attention  of  aristocratic  circles. 
His  next  production  is  a  lost  and  unpublished  comedy,  yf«  III  Be- 
ginning has  a  Goo  J  End,  acted  at  the  Cockpit  in  16x3.  &>  Thomas 
O'verburf  s  Ghost,  entered  in  the  Stationers^  Register  on  the  25th 
of  November,  161  5,  is  also  merely  a  name.  The  last  performance 
of  this  period  is  A  Line  of  Life,  a  moral  treatise  in  prose,  published 
in  1620.  The  moral  edification  of  the  work  is  insignificant;  but  the 
style  shows  some  interesting  traces  of  Bacon's  influence,  and  there 
are  some  suggestive  sketches  of  contemporaries. 

After  this  long  period  of  occasional,  miscellaneous,  and  desultory 

>  writing,  Ford  entered  upon  a  short  period  of  industrious  collaboration 
with  Dekker,  Rowley,  Webster  and  perhaps  others.  It  is  a  rather 
striking  coincidence  that  in  the  year  1 6 1  3,  when  Ford's  first  comedy 
(the  lost  An  III  Beginning  has  a  Good  End)  was  acted,  Dekker  was 
thrown  into  prison  and  was  silent  for  seven  years,  and  that  Ford  ap- 
parently made  no  further  dramatic  attempt  till  Dekker  joined  with 
him  and  Rowley  in  the  composition  of  The  Witch  of  Edmonton. 
This  tragi-comedy  was  not  published  till  1658  ;  but  the  execution 
of  the  witch  referred  to  in  the  title  took  place  in    1621;  and  it  is 


generally  agreed  that  the  play  was  written  to  take  immediate  advan- 
tage of  the  interest  aroused  by  the  trial.  In  March,  1623-24,  a  moral 
masque,  The  Sun^ s  Darlings  was  licensed  for  production  at  the  Cock- 
pit j  in  1636  it  was  printed  with  the  names  of  Ford  and  Dekker  on 
the  title-page.  In  1624  two  other  plays,  The  Fairy  Knight  and  The 
Bristoive  Merchant,  were,  according  to  Sir  Henry  Herbert's  Diary^ 
produced  by  the  joint  authorship  of  Ford  and  Dekker  ;  but  these 
are  lost.  In  September  of  the  same  year  a  tragedy  by  Ford  and  Web- 
ster, A  Late  Murther  of  the  Son  upon  the  Mother,  was  licensed  for 
the  stage,  but  was  not  published,  and  is  now  lost.  Further  evidence 
of  friendly  relations  between  Ford  and  Webster  is  to  be  found  in  the 
commendatory  verses  by  the  former  printed  in  the  Duchess  of  Malfi, 
1623 

The  production  of  The  Lo'ver^s  Melancholy,  November  24, 
1628  (published  1629),  marks  the  beginning  of  Ford's  independent  ^ 
and  significant  dramatic  period.  In  the  dedicatory  epistle  he  declares 
that  this  is  the  first  dramatic  piece  of  his  "that  ever  courted  reader," 
and  he  intimates  that  very  likely  he  will  not  rush  into  print  again. 
After  a  decent  interval,  however,  he  put  forth  in  1633  three  trage- 
dies, ^  Tis  Pity  She^s  a  Whore,  The  Broken  Heart,  and  Lo've'' s  Sac- 
rifice. In  1634  ^^  published  his  one  historical  play,  The  Chronicle 
History  of  Per  kin  War  beck.  The  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble  appeared  in 
1638,  and  in  the  following  year  The  Lady's  Trial,  the  last  drama  to 
be  published  during  the  author's  life-time.  A  tragedy.  Beauty  in  a 
Trance,  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register,  September  9,  1653, 
and  two  comedies,  beside  An  III  Beginning  has  a  Good  End,  were 
entered  in  June,  1660,  namely  The  London  Merchant  and  The  Royal 
Combat;  all  these  were  sacrificed  by  Warburton's  cook.  It  remains 
only  to  add  The  ^een  or  the  Excellency  of  her  Sex,  a  tragi-comedy 
published  in  1653  by  Alexander  Goughe,  and  attributed  by  Professor 
Bang  in  his  reprint  of  1906  to  John  Ford. 

Of  Ford's  later  days  we  know  nothing^  after  1 639  he  vanishes. 
Giftord  says  there  was  "an  indistinct  tradition  among  his  neighbours 
that  he  married  and  had  children."  From  various  dedicatory  epistles 
and  complimentary  verses  we  conclude  that  he  lived  on  excellent 
terms  with  several  gentlemen  of  the  legal  profession  and  several  well- 
known  playwrights  —  among  the  latter,  Webster,  Dekker,  Shirley, 
Massinger,  and  Brome.    He  contributed  verses  prefixed  to  Barnabe 


viii  Biograpl)^ 

Barnes's  Four  Books  of  Offices,  1 606;  to  several  editions  of  Sir  Thomas 
Overbury's  fVife  ^  and  a  highly  laudatory  poem  on  Ben  Jonson  to 
Jonsonus  VirhiuSy  1638.  Our  knowledge  of  his  character  is  mainly 
inferential,  though  his  persistent  emphasis  upon  his  independence 
of  the  literary  profession  reveals  clearly  enough  one  of  his  points  of 
pride.    Aline  in  Heywood's  Hierarchy  of  the  Blessed  Angels^  1635, 

And  hee's  now  but  yocke  Foord,  that  once  was  John 

perhaps  indicates  a  certain  loss  of  personal  dignity  which  Ford  suf- 
fered from  his  association  with  members  of  the  dramatic  profession.  A 
couplet  in  'Die  Time  Poets  (Choyce  Drollery,  1656)  throws  some 
light  upon  his  temperament : 

Deep  in  a  dump  jfohn  Ford  alone  was  got 
With  folded  amies  and  melanchoUy  hat. 

From  first  to  last  Ford  wrote  to  please  selected  judgments,  and, 
though  several  of  his  plays  seem  to  have  met  with  tolerable  approval, 
there  is  little  evidence  that  he  ever  enjoyed  wide  reputation.  Aside 
from  the  tributes  of  fellow  dramatists,  the  most  interesting  contem- 
porary mention  that  he  received  is  the  epigram  of  Richard  Crashaw: 

Thou  cheat'st  us,  Ford;  mak'st  one  seem  two  by  art: 
What  is  Love's  Sacrifice  but  The  Broken  Heart .? 

Under  the  date  March  3,  1668-69,  Pepys  writes  in  his  Diary: 
*'  To  the  Duke  of  York's  playhouse,  and  there  saw  an  old  play,  the 
first  time  acted  these  forty  years,  called  *  The  Lady's  Tryali,*  acted 
only  by  the  young  people  of  the  house  ;  but  the  house  very  full." 
In  1 7 14  Per  kin  Pf^arheck  was  reprinted  to  take  advantage  of  the 
excitement  caused  by  the  Jacobite  insurrection  in  Scotland,  and  in 
1745  it  was  acted  on  similar  occasion.  In  1748  Macklin  revived 
the  Lever's  Ale/anc/io/y  in  Drury-Lane  for  the  benefit  of  his  wife. 
'  Tis  Pity  She's  a  fVhore  was  included  in  Dodsley's  Select  Collection 
-of  Old  Plays,  1744.  The  beginning  of  Ford's  modern  and  substan- 
tial recognition,  however,  is  marked  by  Lamb's  panegyric  on  The 
>    Broken  Heart  in  his  Specimens  from  the  Dramatic  Potts,  1808, 


3Inttot)«ctfon 

When  John  Ford  was  a  young  man  of  twenty  read- 
ing law  at  the  inns-of-court  he  committed  two  trifling 
literary  indiscretions  called  Fame^s  Memorial z.nA  Honour 
Triumphant.  These  little  tracts,  both  published  in  1606, 
are  of  slight  intrinsic  interest,  and  they  have  passed  hitherto 
with  insignificant  comment.  At  first  sight,  indeed,  there 
seems  to  be  no  important  connection  between  them  and 
their  author's  dramatic  work  which  began  to  appear  in 
print  more  than  a  score  of  years  later.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  they  yield  to  closer  scrutiny  extremely 
suggestive  hints  on  the  source  of  Ford's  ideas  and  cul- 
ture, on  the  native  bias  of  his  character,  and  on  his  pe- 
culiar conception  of  tragedy. 

The  immediate  occasion  of  the  first  of  these  publica- 
tions was  the  death,  April  3,  1606,  of  the  accomplished 
and  valiant  Lord  Montjoy,  Earl  of  Devonshire.  Suc- 
cessor in  Ireland  to  the  ill-fated  Essex,  he  had  in  the 
last  years  of  Elizabeth's  reign  gained  military  and  ad- 
ministrative glory.  On  December  26,  1605,  he  married 
Lady  Rich,  then  divorced  from  her  husband,  and,  as 
Gifford  says,  **by  this  one  step,  which,  according  to 
our  notions  and  probably  to  his  own,  was  calculated  to 
repair  in  some  measure  the  injury  which  the  lady's 
character  had  sustained,  ruined  both  her  and  himself. 
.  .  .  While  the  Earl  maintained  an  adulterous  com- 
merce with  the  lady  all  went  smoothly;  but  the  instant 


X  31ntroDuctton 

he  married  her,  he  lost  the  protection  of  the  court  and 
the  estimation  of  the  public.  *  The  King,'  says  San- 
derson, *  was  so  much  displeased  thereat  as  it  broke  the 
Earl's  heart;  for  his  Majesty  told  him  that  he  had  pur- 
chased a  fair  woman  with  a  black  soul.'  " 

The  situation  evidently  interested  Ford  greatly.  As 
we  shall  have  occasion  to  note  elsewhere,  he  was  al- 
ways on  the  side  of  lovers.  Love  seemed  to  him  first 
and  last  the  supreme  reality  of  life.  In  1606  he  was 
himself,  according  to  Fame* 5  Memorial^  hopelessly  in 
love,  and  so  perhaps  predisposed  to  sympathy.  There 
was,  moreover,  much  in  the  Devonshire  case  to  enlist 
his  interest.  The  Lady  Rich  had  never  loved  Lord 
Rich,  and  had  been  married  to  him  against  her  will. 
Between  her  and  Devonshire,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
the  bond  of  a  long  and  faithful  affection.  Rich  was 
mean,  brutal,  and  jealous.  Devonshire  was  one  of  the 
first  gentlemen  of  the  time.  Lady  Rich  under  the  name 
of  **  Stella  "  had  been  the  muse  of  courtly  poets  from 
the  days  of  Sidney.  Ford  enters  the  field  with  Fame* s 
Memorial  not  merely  to  celebrate  the  character  of  the 
dead  nobleman,  but  also  to  plead  the  rights  of  love 
against  public  opinion.  His  appeal  is  to  the  select  few  : 
non  omnibus  studeo,  non  malevolis.  He  refers  to  the 
Earl's  alliance  thus:  <*Link'd  in  the  graceful  bonds  of 
dearest  life,  |  Unjustly  term'd  disgraceful,  he  enjoy'd  | 
Content's  abundance."  He  characterizes  the  lady  whom 
James  had  called  a  «*  fair  woman  with  a  black  soul  " 
as  **that  glorious  star  |  Which  beautified  the  value  of 
our  land,  |  The  lights  of  whose  perfections  brighter  are 
I  Than  all  the  lamps  which  in  the  lustre  stand  |  Of 


31ntroUuction  xi 

Heaven's  forehead."  He  commends  her  for  braving 
popular  censure:  **  A  beauty  fairly-wise,  wisely-dis- 
creet I  In  winking  mildly  at  the  tongue  of  rumour." 
Finally  he  reveals  ihe  intensely  romantic  ground  on 
which  he  stands  by  a  veiled  reference  to  this  affair  in 
Honour  Triumphant :  **They  principally  deserve  love 
who  can  moderate  their  private  affections,  and  level  the 
scope  of  desert  to  the  executing  their  ladies  command, 
and  adorn  their  names  by  martial  feats  of  arms:  .  .  . 
Yea,  what  better  example  than  of  late  in  our  own  ter- 
ritory? that  noble,  untimely-cropt  spirit  of  honour,  our 
English  Hector  [Devonshire] ,  who  cared  not  to  un- 
dergo any  gust  of  spleen  and  censure  for  his  never- 
sufficiendy  admired  Opia,  a  perfect  Penelope  [Penelope 
was  the  lady's  given  name]  to  her  ancient  knight 
Ulysses." 

The  circumstances  which  led  to  the  composition  of 
Honour  Triumphant  are  worthy  of  a  brief  notice.  In 
the  summer  of  1 606  the  King  of  Denmark  paid  a  visit 
to  the  English  court.  In  honour  of  the  occasion  there 
were  endless  banquets,  parades,  pageants,  plays,  and 
royal  joustings.  Among  the  martial  pastimes  one  inter- 
esting revival  from  bygone  days  of  chivalry  demands 
our  attention,  namely,  a  **  Challenge  of  four  Knights 
Errant  of  the  Fortunate  Islands,  (Earls  of  Lenox, 
Arundel,  Pembroke,  and  Montgomery,)  to  maintain 
four  propositions  relating  to  love  and  ladies,  addressed 
to  all  honourable  *  Men  at  Arms,  Knights  Adventurers 
of  Hereditary  Note,  that  for  most  maintenable  actions 
wield  the  sword  or  lance,  in  the  quest  of  glory.'  "  This 
entry  may  be  found  in  the  Calendar  of  State  Papers 


xii  3|ntroUuction 

Domestic,  vol.  xxii,  June  i,  page  319.  To  the  notice 
is  added  in  brackets,  **  By  Wm.  Drummond  of  Haw- 
thornden."  It  is  not  clear  what  is  meant  by  this  ascrip- 
tion. In  1 606  Drummond  was  making  his  first  visit  to 
London,  and  since  his  father  was  in  attendance  upon 
the  King,  would  naturally  have  been  in  touch  with  the 
affairs  of  the  court.  In  a  letter  dated  at  Greenwich, 
June  I,  1606  (see  Drummond's  Works,  Edinburgh, 
171 1,  pp.  231—32),  Drummond  gives  the  full  text 
of  the  challenge,  and  names  the  four  defenders.  His 
wording  of  the  four  propositions,  slightly  different  from 
Ford's,  is  as  follows: 

**  I.  That  in  service  of  ladies  no  knight  hath  free 
will. 

**  2.   That  it  is  beauty  maintaineth  the  world  in  valor. 

"3.   That  no  fair  lady  was  ever  false. 

**4.  That  none  can  be  perfectly  wise  but  lovers." 
Drummond  adds  :  **  The  king  of  Denmark  is  expected 
here  daily,  for  whose  entertainment,  this  challenge  ap- 
peareth  to  be  given  forth ' ' ;  this  does  not  seem  to  indi- 
cate Dfummond's  authorship.  In  a  letter  of  June  28 
(Works  as  above,  p.  233),  Drummond  records  a  hu- 
morous answer  to  the  challenge  with  four  counter 
propositions;  but  he  remarks  that  **the  answerers  have 
not  appeared.'* 

The  affair  made  th,e  king  laugh,  says  the  Scotch  poet, 
but  the  young  Templar  Ford  was  struck  by  the  happy 
thought  that  the  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword.  Ac- 
cordingly he  brings  forth  his  pamphlet  Honour  Trium- 
phant :  or  the  Peeres'  Challenge  with  this  motto  on  the 
title-page:  Tarn  Mer curio,  quam  Marti —  **  In  honor 


3introJ3uction  xiii 

of  all  faire  ladies,  and  in  defence  of  these  foure  positions 
following:  i .  Knights  in  ladies  service  have  no  free- 
will. 2.  Beauty  is  the  mainteiner  of  valour.  3.  Faire 
lady  was  never  false.  4.  Perfect  lovers  are  onely  wise. 
Mainteined  by  Arguments."  The  four  parts  of  the  dis- 
course are  addressed  to  the  Lords  Lennox,  Arundel, 
Pembroke,  and  Montgomery  in  the  order  named.  The 
dedicatory  epistle  is  addressed  to  the  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke and  the  Countess  of  Montgomery.  There  is  also 
a  saucy  address  "to  every  sundry-opinioned  reader" 
which  contains  the  assurance  that  Ford  is  writing  to 
please  the  fair  and  noble,  and  is  utterly  indiiFerent  to 
the  judgment  of  all  others. 

But  what  chiefly  concerns  us  is  the  spirit  and  temper 
of  the  document  itself.  We  should  not  expect  much 
originality  of  thought  in  a  youth  of  twenty,  nor  do  we 
find  it  here.  Honour  Triumphant  reveals  a  mind  im- 
mersed in  the  chivalric  romances  and  poetry  of  the 
Elizabethan  reign,'  and  deeply  impregnated  with  the 
Platonic  ideas  of  love  and  beauty  best  represented  in 
the  hymns  of  Spenser  but  through  the  medium  of  Italian 
literature  widely  disseminated  in  English.  The  upshot 
of  the  argument  is  to  identify  the  good  with  the  beauti- 
ful and  the  service  of  a  fair  lady  with  the  pursuit  of 
virtue.  **The  chiefest  creation  of  man,"  says  Ford, 
**  was  —  next  his  own  soul  —  to  do  homage  to  the  ex- 
cellent frame  of  beauty  —  a  woman!"  **To  be  cap- 
tived  to  beauty  is  to  be  free  to  virtue."  To  be  excluded 
from  the  favour  of  beauty  is  a  **  hell  insufferable."  All 
men  of  valour  aim  at  honour  ;  but,  he  contends,  <*  the 
^  The  influence  of  Lyly's  Euphua  is  obvious. 


xiv  31ntroDuccion 

mark  which  honour  directs  his  level  to  is  to  participate 
the  delightful  sweets  of  sweetest  beauty."  Beauty  alone 
is  a  good  in  itself.  **  For  men  to  be  honoured  of  ladies 
is  the  scope  of  ill  1  felicity."  This  position  is  supported 
by  Aristotle  who  says  :  **  the  temperature  of  the  mind 
follows  the  temperature  of  the  body."  Hence  it  follows 
that  if  a  lady  is  beautiful  she  must  be  good  :  **  as  the 
outward  shape  is  more  singular,  so  the  inward  virtues 
must  be  more  exquisite."  To  love  a  beautiful  woman 
is  the  highest  wisdom.  Indeed,  lovers  are  often  superior 
to  theologians  in  their  knowledge  of  the  divine;  for 
theologians  are  occasionally  distracted  by  human  affairs  ; 
but  **  lovers  have  evermore  the  idea  of  beauty  in  their 
imaginations,  and  therefore  hourly  doadore  their  Maker's 
architecture."  In  conclusion  :  **  Would  any  be  happy, 
courageous,  singular,  or  provident  ?  let  him  be  a  lover. 
In  that  life  consisteth  all  happiness,  all  courage,  all  glory, 
all  wisdom," 

The  ardor  and  earnestness  of  Ford's  stvle  suggest 
that  the  leading  propositions  ot  this  pamphlet  were  to 
him  not  merely  a  set  of  pretty  paradoxes,  but  a  religion. 
The  worship  of  beauty,  the  fatality  of  love,  the  glorifi- 
cation of  passion  —  these  were  the  fruits  of  an  aristo- 
cratic and  highly  captivating  mode  of  free  thought,  inde- 
pendent alike  of  public  opinion,  common  morals,  laws, 
and  religion,  and  at  times  even  clashing  sharplv  with 
them.  For  it  is  clear  that  most  startlingly  unconventional 
conclusions  may  be  logically  derived  from  the  fundamen- 
tal principles  of  the  religion  of  beautv.  To  take  a  single 
instance,  Spenser  savs  in  his  "  H)mne  in  Honour  of 
Beautie  "   that   love  is   a  celesti;il   harmony  of  hearts 


3Introtmctiou  xv 

**  composed  of  starrcs  concent,"  of  hearts  that  kneyv 
each  other  before  they  descended  from  their  **  heavenly 
bowres." 

Then  wrong  it  were  that  any  other  twaine 
Should  in  love's  gentle  band  combyned  bee 
But  those  whom  heaven  did  at  first  ordaine, 
And  made  out  of  one  mould  the  more  t'agree. 

Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  a  common  Eliz- 
abethan marriage,  such  as  that  of  Lord  and  Lady  Rich, 
in  which  relatives  dispose  of  the  bride  for  reasons  of 
fortune  and  family.  Subsequently  the  man  destined  by 
heaven  for  Lady  Rich  appears.  According  to  the  relig- 
ion of  beauty,  it  is  right  that  they  should  be  united  ; 
but  the  corrupted  currents  of  law,  morality,  and  church 
religion  do  not  allow  it. 

Spenser's  wish  to  withdraw  this  poem  from  circulation 
because  of  its  dangerous  implications  —  finding  that  young 
readers  **do  rather  suckc  out  poyson  to  their  strong 
passion,  then  hony  to  their  honest  delight"' —  is  a 
characteristic  example  of  English  ethical  sense  curbing 
the  itsthetic  impulse  in  the  interest  of  conduct,  in 
F.ngland  this  religion  of  beauty  was  then,  as  it  has  always 
been,  an  exotic  ;  ^  and  graver  heads  in  Ford's  own  time 
repudiated  it  in  no  mild  terms,  betraying  their  conviction 
that  the  glorification  of  amorous  passion  was  a  curse  out 
of  Italy,  a  weakness  to  be  condoned  in  youth,  a  vice  to 

*   See  his  prefiitorv  note  to  the  edition  of  1596. 

^  Cf.  Camilla  to  Pliilautus  :  *'  In  Italy  to  ly ve  in  love  is  thought 
no  fault,  ft)r  that  there  they  are  all  given  to  lust,  which  maketh  thee 
to  conjecture  that  we  in  England  recken  love  as  ye  chiefest  vertue, 
which  we  abhorre  as  ye  greatest  vice."  Kuphues,  p.  373,  London, 
1900. 


xvi  31ntrotmction 

be  condemned  in  maturity.  **The  stage,**  says  Lord 
Bacon,  **is  more  beholden  to  love  than  the  life  of  man. 
For  as  to  the  stage  love  is  ever  a  matter  of  comedies 
and  now  and  then  of  tragedies,  but  in  life  it  doth  much 
mischief,  sometimes  like  a  siren,  sometimes  like  a  fury. 
.  .  .  Great  spirits  and  great  business  do  keep  out  this 
weak  passion."  '  Equally  striking  is  the  judgment  on 
love  by  that  little  known  but  very  interesting  essayist 
Sir  William  Cornwallis :  **It  is  a  pretty  soft  thing  this 
same  Love  .  .  .  the  badge  of  eighteene,  and  upward, 
not  to  be  disallowed  ;  better  spend  thy  tinle  so  then 
at  Dice.  I  am  content  to  call  this  Love,  though  I  holde 
Love  too  worthy  a  Cement  to  joyne  earth  to  earth.'*  So 
far  is  Cornwallis  from  partaking  in  the  pseudo-Pla- 
tonic ideas  of  Ford  that  he  is  unwilling  to  bestow  the 
name  of  love  at  all  on  the  ** affection"  existing  between 
the  sexes,  **for  it  gives  opportunity  to  lust,  which  the 
purenessof  Love  will  not  endure.*'  ^  As  further  evidence 
of  a  contemporary  distrust  of  human  nature  and  disgust 
at  all  irregular  relations,  take  these  sentences  from  an 
excellent  **  Discourse  of  Laws  "  3  which  appeared  in 
1620:  "Laws  are  so  absolutely  necessary  ...  to 
m^ke  such  a  distinction  between  lawful  and  exorbitant 
desires,  as  unhuvfull  affections  may  not  be  colored  with 
good  appearances.  .  .  .  Whereas  men  be  ntiturall'^ 
affected  and  possessed  with  a  violent  heat  of  desires  and 
passions  and  fancies,  laws  restrain  and  draw  them  from 
those  actions  and  thoughts  that  would  precipitate  to  all 

"  See  his  essay  "Of  Love." 

*  Essayt's.    By  Sir  William  Cornewallys,  London,  1606  :  Essay  5. 

^  An  essay  in  IJortt  Subsecivie^  London,    1620. 


3|ntrotiuction  xvii 

manner  of  hazards  and  ill,  which  natural  inclination  is 
prone  enough  to."  Finally,  Robert  Burton  after  rang- 
ing widely  through  the  vast  literature  of  the  subject  de- 
fines romantic  love  as  a  disease,  **The  comeliness  and 
beauty  which  proceeds  from  woman,"  he  says,  **caus- 
eth  Heroic aly  or  Love-melancholy,  is  more  eminent 
above  the  rest,  and  properly  called  Love.  The  part  af- 
fected in  men  is  the  liver,  and  therefore  called  Hcroicaly 
because  commonly  Gallants,  Noblemen,  and  the  most 
generous  spirits  are  possessed  with  it."  '  Yet  this  hero- 
ical  love,  he  declares,  *' deserves  much  rather  to  be 
called  burning  lust  than  by  such  an  honourable  title."  ' 
It  is  the  special  passion  of  an  idle  nobility  :  **  We  may 
conclude,  that  if  they  be  young,  fortunate,  rich,  high- 
fed,  and  idle  withal,  it  is  almost  impossible  that  they 
should  live  honest,  not  rage  and  precipitate  themselves 
into  those  inconveniences  of  burning  lust.  "3 

Now  it  is  a  significant  fict  that  one  of  the  few  bits 
of  contemporary  evidence  bearing  on  Ford's  character 
tends  to  show  that  he  had  the  reputation  of  a  romantic 
amorist.  In  Choyce  Drollery  ( 1656)  there  appear  two 
lines  with  distinct  implications: 

Deep  in  a  dump  John  Ford  alone  was  got 
With  folded  armes  and  melancholly  hat.* 

Ellis  seems  to  think  that  this  means  that  he  was  of  **shy 
and  reserved  temperament."    Ward  glosses  thus:    **  He 

*    The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy^   vol.  in,  p.  43,  London,  1904. 

2   Ibid.,  p.  57. 

'    Ihid.,  p.  69. 

•*  Choyce  Drollery.  .  .  .  Now  first  reprinted  from  the  edition  of 
1656.  .  .  .  Ed.  by  j.  Woodfail  Kbsworth,  Boston,  1876:  the  refer- 
ence is  in  a  poem  On  the  I'ime- Poets,  pp.  5-7. 


xviii  3|ntrotiuction 

is  ridiculed  for  a  tendency  to  self-seclusion  and  melan- 
choly." But  the  best  commentary  upon  the  couplet  is 
furnished  by  one  of  the  curious  sections  of  the  frontis- 
^ piece  of  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy.  It  represents 
^  a  tall,  elegantly  attired  young  gentleman  standing  with 
folded  hands  and  wide  hat  pulled  far  down  over  his 
e;yes.  Beside  him  are  books  and  quill  pen,  at  his  feet 
music  and  a  lute,  and  he  is  labeled  **  Inamorato."  He 
illustrates  the  section  of  the  work  called  **  Love  Melan- 
choly." The  couplet,  then,  does  not  furnish  us  per- 
haps **  that  vivid  touch  of  portraiture  "  which  Ellis 
sees  in  it,  but  it  refers  Ford  by  a  conventional  sign  to  a 
well  recognized  type.  This  interpretation  is  borne  out 
by  a  passage  in  Cornwallis;  love,  he  says,  brings  forth 
**  songs  full  of  passion,  enough  to  procure  crossed  arms, 
and  the  Hat  pulled  down."  ^  I  dwell  upon  this  point 
because  it  goes  to  prove,  with  the  other  evidence,  that 
Ford  portrayed  the  various  passions  of  love  in  his 
dramas  from  an  inside  view,  and  not  with  the  detach- 
ment of  the  sovereign  dramatist  nor  the  objectivity  of 
a  scholar  or  a  physician,  but  with  the  brooding  sym- 
pathy of  a  lover. 

It  is  especially  necessary  to  insist  upon  this  point, 
furthermore,  because  Ford,  in  spite  of  his  fundamentally 
different  point  of  view,  shows  a  large  obligation  to  Bur- 
ton. With  the  single  exception  of  Perkin  Warbecky  he 
chooses  for  the  theme  of  his  plays  some  aspect  of  ro- 
mantic or  **heroical"  love,  and  he  scrutinizes  the 
mental  and  physical  symptoms  of  the  lovers  with  some- 
thing of  medical  interest.  Like  Burton,  he  seems  to 
^  Essay  5. 


3|ntroDuction  xix 

believe  this  heroical  love  the  peculiar  afFection  of  m&n 
and  women  living  in  luxurious  idleness;  for  he  excludes 
his  characters  from  participation  in  field  sports,  war, 
adventure,  and  shuts  them  up  where  love  is  the  only 
social  resource — to  quote  Burton's  own  words,  *Mn 
great  houses,  princes'  courts,  where  they  are  idle  in 
summo  gradUf  fare  well,  live  at  ease,  and  cannot  tell 
otherwise  how  to  spend  their  time."  His  characterful 
accordingly,  being  vacant  of  all  other  occupation,  are  I 
completely  engrossed  by  a  single  passion  of  love,  or  of 
jealousy,  or  of  revenge,  or  of  grief,  which  becomes  sole 
master  of  their  fate,  and  ravishes  them  with  extravagant 
joy,  or  secretly  preys  upon  their  spirits,  or  hurries  them 
swiftly  down  to  crime  and  death. 

In  his  first  published  play.  The  Lover'' s  Melancholy 
(  1629),  Ford  acknowledges  by  a  marginal  note  his  in- 
debtedness to  Burton  for  a  passage  distinguishing  certain 
mental  diseases  from  melancholy.  It  has  also  been 
pointed  out  that  the  interlude  of  madmen  is  derived 
^from  the  Anatomy,  It  should  be  made  equally  clear 
that  the  germinal  idea  of  the  whole  play  is  due  to  Bur- 
ton. The  Lover^s  Melancholy  is  decidedly  deficient  in 
action,  but  such  elements  of  plot  as  it  possesses  seem  to 
have  been  suggested  by  Burton's  procedure  in  the  section 
of  his  work  treating  of  love  melancholy.  Ford  chooses 
for  this  scene  a  love-sick  court,  and  in  a  medico-poetical 
fashion  studies  the  causes,  the  symptoms  and  the  cure 
of  love.  He  even  introduces  as  an  active  figure  among 
the  dramatis  personae  a  physician  who  has  evidently 
given  his  days  and  nights  to  the  study  of  Burton.  In 
this  case  the  patients  are  all  afiiicted  with  love-sorrow 


XX  idntrotiuction 

caused  by  a  separation  from  the  objects  of  their  affec- 
tions. Since  their  affections  flow  in  permissible  channels 
the  cure  is  simple;  it  is  necessary  only  to  re-unite  the 
sundered  lovers. 

Closely  related  to  The  Lover''  s  Melancholy  by  virtue 
of  their  common  relation  to  the  A?iatomy  of  Me/ancholy 
is  the  play  called  The  Queen  (1653),  recently  edited 
by  Professor  Bang  and  most  plausibly  attributed  by  him 
to  the  authorship  of  Ford.  Here  again,  vi^ith  something 
more  of  plot  than  in  The  Lover^ s  Melancholy^  we  find 
the  same  curious  use  of  the  Burtonian  psychotherapeu- 
tics. Alphonso,  the  hero,  is  suffering  from  an  unac- 
countable but  intense  antagonism  to  the  entire  female 
sex.  The  queen  is  suffering  equally  from  a  no  less  in- 
tense and  unaccountable  passion  for  Alphonso.  Muretto, 
a  benevolent  villain  who  understands  the  nature  of  this 
heroical  melancholy,  deliberately  goes  about,  like  a  mod- 
ern practitioner  of  the  art  of  mental  healing,  to  suggest 
to  the  mind  of  the  hero  thoughts  favorable  to  the  queen. 
By  a  strenuous  course  of  psychological  treatment  he  re- 
stores the  woman-hater  to  a  normal  condition.  Hero 
and  heroine  are  manipulated  by  the  master  of  the  show 
in  certain  typical  and  exciting  crises  of  love,  jealousy, 
and  remorse  to  illustrate  the  treatment  of  mental  aber- 
ration. The  formula  is  apparent:  Alphonso  is  the  pa- 
tient; Muretto  is  the  physician;  the  queen  is  the  cure. 

The  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble  (1638)  is  doubtless 
from  the  dramatic,  the  aesthetic,  or  the  ethical  point  of 
view  one  of  the  worst  plays  in  the  world.  It  admits  the 
reader  to  a  disgustingly  indecent  situation,  extracts  from 
it  the  full  measure  of  repulsiveness,  and  then  in  the  fifth 


31ntroiJuctwn  xxi 

act  blandly  assures  us  it  was  all  an  innocent  hoax.  The 
thing  is  bad  beyond  condemnation,  but  perhaps  not 
beyond  explanation.  One  may  assume  that  it  was  a 
work  of  Ford's  dotage.  Or  —  and  it  is  rather  tempt- 
ing—  one  may  assume  that  Ford  had  undertaken,  like 
his  master  Burton,  to  display  not  only  all  the  common 
aspects  of  love-melancholy,,  but  also  its  sinister  and 
execrable  idiosyncrasies,  of  which  senile  lasciviousness 
is  one. 

The  Ladf  s  Trial  (  1 639),  the  last  of  the  plays  with 
happy  endings,  may  be  considered  a  study  of  ground- 
less jealousy  after  marriage.  The  husband  returning 
from  a  long  journey  becomes  gravely  suspicious  of  his 
entirely  innocent  wife.  All  the  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances of  the  family  rise  vehemently  in  defense  of  the 
wife,  and  at  length  the  jealous  man's  ill  fancies  are 
routed.  The  interest  here  lies  in  the  delicate  portrayal 
of  the  emotions  of  a  finely  fibred  woman  under  stress 
of  a  terrible  accusation,  in  the  chivalrous  feeling  which 
her  virtue  excites  in  the  breast  of  the  least  virtuous,  and 
in  the  careful  exposition  of  the  various  shades  of  feeling 
through  which  the  husband  passes  before  his  confidence 
is  restored.  The  play  contains  some  of  Ford's  sweetest 
blank  verse  and  some  excellently  subtle  bits  of  charac- 
terization; but  the  substance  of  the  story  is  altogether 
too  slight  to  be  stretched  over  a  five-act  drama. 

If  Ford  had  written  only  The  Lover^ s  Melancholy, 
The  ^een.  The  Fancies  Chaste  and  Noble ,  and  The 
Ladj* s  Trial  he  would  have  established  but  small  claims 
on  the  attention  of  posterity.  Nor  would  Per  kin  War- 
beck  have  made  him  a  reputation.    Coming  to  the  stage 


xxii  3]utroUuction 

after  Shakespeare,  Chapman,  Jonson,  Dekker,  Hey- 
vvood,  Middleton,  Webster,  Beaumont,  and  Fletcher, 
he  had  nothing  to  contribute  to  dramatic  technique  but 
much  to  learn.  On  the  basis  of  the  five  plays  so  far 
considered  one  might  almost  be  justified  in  rating  him  as 
an  intermittently  successful  imitator.  The  Lover^ s  Mel- 
i2?icbo/y  is  a  pretty  thing  in  the  Arcadian  mood,  but  im- 
measurably surpassed  in  its  kind  by  predecessors.  As  for 
The  Oueen.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  had  written  a  half 
dozen  tragi-comedies  of  its  type  as  good  or  far  better. 
No  one  who  had  seen  Volponc  would  have  endured  sit- 
ting through  The  Fancies.'^  The  old  playgoer  might 
fairly  have  regarded  The  LtiJy^ s  Trial  as  a  tame,  un- 
eventful, somewhat  modernized  version  of  The  Wmter* s 
Tale.  Per  kin  War  beck  is  a  carefully  constructed,  well 
written,  and  highly  respectable  specimen  of  the  English 
historical  plav.  Produced  at  a  date  long  after  the  vogue 
of  the  chronicle  play  had  died  away,  it  has  attracted 
attention  by  its  solitariness  and  has  been  highly  praised. 
Placed  beside  Edward  II,  Richard  111,  Henry  IV  or 
Henry  V  it  looks  distinctly  anaMiiic.  Our  dramatist,  on 
the  strength  of  this  evidence,  seems  to  lack  ideas.*  He 
catches  a  glimpse  of  an  interesting  dramatic  situation, 
but  he  lacks  the  imagination  to  follow  out  its  evolution. 

*  Many  situations  in  the  two  plays  are  parallel,  and  the  supposed 
character  of  Octavio  has  something  in  common  with  that  of  Volpone. 

*  The  amount  of  credit  that  Ford  should  receive  for  Tht  Sun  % 
Darling  and  The  fVitch  of  Edmonton  is  still  disputable  and,  like 
most  problems  in  collaboration,  probably  always  will  be.  Since  space 
does  not  permit  of  any  profitable  discussion  of  them  here,  I  prefer  to 
pass  them  with  a  reference  to  F.  F.  Pierce's  two  articles  on  the 
collaboration  of  Dekker  and  Ford  in  Aiiglia^  xxxvi  (1911). 


31ntroDuction  xxiH 

He  has  a  certain  penetrating  insight  into  the  passionate 
moods  of  the  spirit,  but  he  lacks  the  power  of  inventing 
characteristic  action  for  the  display  of  those  moods.  Fre- 
quently he  sets  to  work  in  a  very  mechanical  fashion  to 
contrive  a  story  to  fit  his  characters,  and,  being  a  feeble 
plotter,  too  often  contents  himself  with  presenting  the 
persons  of  the  main  plot  in  a  flimsy  patchwork  of  scenes 
pieced  out  to  the  length  of  a  play  by  an  irrelevant  and 
tedious  sub-plot.  By  common  consent  it  has  been  de- 
cided that  wit  and  humour  were  omitted  from  his  en- 
dowment, and  that  his  comic  characters  are  among  the 
worst  in  the  history  of  the  English  drama. 

Upon  what,  then,  does  Ford's  reputation  rest?  In- 
dubitably upon  his  three  tragedies,  "7"/>  Pity,  The 
Brokc?i  Hearty  and  Love* s  Sacrifice,  all  published  in 
1633.  liikc  many  another  man  of  distinct  but  strictly  lim- 
ited genius.  Ford  had  two  or  three  original  ideas  in  him, 
uttered  them  with  power,  and  then  in  a  vain  effort  to  re- 
peat his  success  puttered  on  from  bad  to  worse.  The  fact 
seems  to  be  that  his  genius  remained  somewhat  lethargic 
unless  his  heart  was  engaged.  It  is  highly  significant 
that  in  these  three  really  noteworthy  plays  his  theme  is 
\  forbidden  love.  In  each  case  he  confronts  what  he  re- 
gards as  an  essentially  tragic  problem;  and  his  construct- 
ive power,  his  characterization,  and  his  poetry  rise  to 
the  occasion.  Tn  each  case  he  approaches  his  material 
with  certain  romantic  preconceptions  which  give  to  his 
treatment  of  illicit  passion  an  impressive  consistency.  He 
appears  to  believe  still,  as  in  his  youth,  that  love  be- 
tween the  sexes  is  of  mystical  and  divine  origin,  that  it 
is  irresistible,  and  that  it  is  the  highest  good,  the  end 


xxiv  idntrotiuction 

and  aim  of  being.  This  certainly  is  the  creed  of  his 
tragic  characters.  They  believe  in  it  uncompromisingly; 
for  it  they  are  ready  to  die,  reiterating  their  faith  in  the 
last  disgrace  and  agony.  In  discussing  the  peculiar  tragic 
effects  which  issue  from  this  romantic  creed  I  shall  dis- 
regard the  conjectural  dates  of  the  plays,  and  take  them 
up  in  a  kind  of  climactic  order.  This  procedure  is  war- 
ranted by  the  facts,  first,  that  the  dates  of  composition 
appear  to  be  indeterminable,  and,  second,  that  the  dates 
of  composition  do  not  affect  the  present  discussion. 

The  Broken  Heart  presents  a  clearly  defined  moral 
problem.  Penthea,  very  much  in  love  with  Orgilus  and 
betrothed  to  him,  is  forced  to  marry  Bassanes.  Orgilus, 
taking  a  purely  rationalistic  or  idealistic  view  of  the 
matter,  refuses  to  acknowledge  anv  validity  in  the  union 
of  Penthea  and  Bassanes.  Frantic  with  indignant  passion 
he  cries: 

I  would  possess  my  wifej  the  equity 
Of  very  reason  bids  me. 

Penthea  with  a  supreme  effort  preserves  self-control, 
and  urges  her  desperate  lover  to  resign  himself  to  the 
irrevocable,  pleading  that  the  true  quality  of  their  mu- 
tual affection  will  best  show  itself  in  virtuous  submission 
to  necessity.  Which  of  the  two  is  right?  In  Elizabethan 
times  when  parents  disposed  of  their  children  in  a  rather 
more  highhanded  fashion  than  now  obtains  —  when 
Penelope  Devereux  was  carried  protesting  to  the  altar 
to  marry  Lord  Rich  —  was  it  not  a  fair  question? 

By  a  subtlety  in  feminine  characterization  unsurpassed 
if  not  unequalled  in  the  period  Ford  reveals  the  full 
tragic  meaning  of  the  problem.    Penthea's  conduct  in 


31ntroDuction  xxv 

this  difficult  crisis  is  beyond  criticism.  She  shows  ten- 
derness to  her  lover  without  tempting  his  weakness. 
She  admits  that  they  have  been  grievously  wronged, 
but  she  will  not  consent  to  his  righting  that  wrong  by 
another.  Under  the  burden  of  her  own  sorrow  she  finds 
strength  to  comfort  his.  Yet  she  is  intensely  human  even 
at  the  height  of  an  almost  saintly  renunciation;  though 
she  has  the  rare  charity  to  wish  him  happy  with  another 
wife,  she  feels  a  sensitive  solicitude  for  that  wife's  opin- 
ion of  her.  When  she  has  finally  been  forced  to  send 
her  lover  away  with  sharp  words,  she  is  torn  by  the 
conflict  of  love  and  honor,  and  is  dissolved  in  pity  for 
the  suffering  of  the  unhappy  man.  Having  resolved, 
come  what  may,  to  respect  the  ceremonial  bond,  she 
must  fight  for  honor  in  a  long  and  silent  inner  struggle 
in  which  victory  is  attended  with  no  less  misery  than 
defeat.  For  she  is  held  in  a  living  death  by  her  rela- 
tions with  Bassanes,  her  husband.  The  situation  has 
been  a  favorite  on  the  modern  stage.  She  is  impaled  on 
the  horns  of  a  dilemma  — dishonor  in  the  arms  of  Or- 
gilus,  dishonor  in  the  arms  of  Bassanes.  Because  she  is 
a  woman  and  the  weight  of  convention  is  heavy  upon 
her,  she  chooses  the  legitimatized  rather  than  the  unle- 
gitimatized  shame.  Yet  at  last  her  revolted  spirit  bursts 
into  speech;  and  she  begs  her  brother  Ithocles,  who 
was  instrumental  in  her  marriage,  to  kill  her.  **  How 
does  thy  lord  esteem  thee?  "  asks  the  now  remorseful 
brother.   Penthea's  reply  approaches  the  unbearable: 

Such  an  one 
As  only  you  have  made  me;  a  faith  breaker, 


xxvi  31ntrolmction 

A  spotted  whore ;  forgive  me,  I  am  one, 
In  act,  not  in  desires,  the  gods  must  witness. 

For  she  that's  wife  to  Orgilus,  and  lives 

In  known  adultery  with  Bassanes 

Is  at  the  best  a  whore.   Wilt  kill  me  now  ? 

This  tremendous  sense  of  involuntary  pollution  in  a 
woman  legally  blameless  and  in  the  vulgar  sense  per- 
fectly respectable  is  a  new  note  in  the  drama  and  an 
important  one. 

Penthea's  high-strung  soul  cannot  for  long  endure 
the  strain.  Her  mind  begins  to  break  down  under  the 
omnipresent  horror  of  her  unclassified  sin.  Stroke  by 
stroke  Ford  makes  it  appear  more  and  more  dubious 
whether  she  has  chosen  the  better  part.  With  wits 
wandering  on  the  verge  of  final  dissolution  she  turns  in 
the  last  gasp  of  her  strangled  emotion  to  the  well-beloved 
Orgilus,  murmuring  of  bride's  laces  and  gathered  roses. 
Over  all  still  broods  the  undving  horror;  from  the 
depths  of  pure  pathos,  from  the  ultimate  bitterness  of 
a  ruined  life  comes  her  cry: 

Since  I  was  first  a  wife,  I  might  have  been 

Mother  to  many  pretty  smiling  babes; 

They  would  have  smiled  when  I  smiled,  and  for  certain 

I  should  have  cried  when  they  cried;  truly,  brother, 

My  father  would  have  picked  me  out  a  husband, 

And  then  my  little  ones  had  been  no  bastards; 

But  'tis  too  late  for  me  to  marry  now, 

I  am  past  child-bearing. 

Such  a  revelation  of  complex  tragic  emotion  in  the 
soul  of  a  pure  woman  cannot  be  found  elsewhere  in  the 
old  drama,  even  in  Shakespeare  —  perhaps  1  should 
say,  least  of  all  in  Shakespeare.    I  wish  here  to  accent 


IdntroDuctton  xxvii 

the  words  **complcx"  and  **pure."  Dcsdemona,  far 
example,  is  pure;  but  her  tragic  emotion  is  simple.  The 
tragic  emotion  of  Cleopatra,  on  the  other  hand,  may  be 
described  as  complex;  but  she  cannot  be  described  as 
pure.  And  in  general  the  tragic  heroines  of  the  period 
range  themselves  under  one  banner  or  the  other:  under 
Desdemona's,  Aspatia  in  the  Ma'uP s  Tr/igcdy,  the 
Duchess  of  Malfi,  and  Dorothea  in  the  Virgi?i  Martyr; 
under  Cleopatra's,  Tamyra  in  Bussy  W  Amboisy  Evadne 
in  the  Maid'' s  Tragedy y  Vittoria  in  the  White  Devil, 
and  Beatrice-Joanna  in  the  Changelmg.  There  is  per- 
haps a  third  class  of  those  who,  like  Mrs.  Frankford  in 
the  Woman  Killed  with  Ki?idnesSy  are  neither  pure  nor 
emotionally  complex  —  weak  sisters  who  are  perfectly 
conventional  even  in  their  sins.  The  orthodox  and  un- 
adventurous  ethics  of  the  majority  of  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists  are  seen  in  nothing  more  distinctly  than  in 
the  fact  that  they  keep  their  pure  women  out  of  moral 
dilemmas.  In  their  representation  of  life  the  world  may 
break  the  hearts  of  the  innocent,  but  only  the  wicked, 
it  seems,  may  break  their  own  hearts.  The  tragic  emo- 
tions of  the  pure  are  simple,  because  their  disaster  comes 
upon  them  from  without;  the  tragic  emotions  of  the 
guilty  are  complex,  because  their  disaster  is  due  to  a 
discord  in  their  own  souls.  In  The  Broke?i  Heart 
Ford  throws  down  the  gauntlet  to  orthodox  morality  by 
placing  a  thoroughly  pure  woman  in  a  genuine  moral 
dilemma.  This  is  his  most  notable  innovation.  By  estab- 
lishing the  tragic  conflict  of  Penthea  in  her  own  spirit, 
he  makes  of  her  a  distinctly  modern  type  of  heroine.  In 
a  mood  of  high  and  poignant  seriousness  he  shows  that 


} 


xxviii  3fl"ti*otmction 

keeping  the  laws  and  statutes  may  sometimes  make 
against  virtue,  and  the  preservation  of  honor  Ix;  the 
wreck  ot  peace. 

Before  leaving  this  play  we  must  give  a  word  to  the 
cniincntlv  Fordian  hut  far  less  complex  character  of 
Orgilus.  Convinced  that  Penthea's  resolution  will  never 
be  moved,  he  fixes  all  his  thoughts  on  revenge,  and,  in 
a  kind  of  icv  ardor  or  madness,  murders  Ithocles;  for 
which  he  is  sentenced  to  death  with  the  approval  of 
those  surviving  in  the  last  act.  It  is  to  be  noted,  how- 
ever, that  he  welcomes  death,  dies  bravely,  and  abso- 
lutely unrepentant.  The  man  is  reallv  depicted  as  a 
martvr  to  the  strength  and  fidelity  of  his  passion;  he  is 
an  uncompromising  idealist.  The  laws  against  murder 
must  be  recognized;  but  bv  emphasizing  the  outrage 
which  Orgilus  has  suffered,  the  vehemence  of  passion 
by  which  he  is  consumed,  and  the  stoical  calm  with 
which  he  meets  his  fate.  Ford  has  made  him  appear 
rather  a  victim  than  a  monster.  The  death  of  Penthea, 
the  murder  of  Ithocles,  the  execution  of  Bassanes,  and 
the  death  of  Calantha  all  prove  how  fatal  it  is  to  offer 
resistance  to  omnipotent  love. 

Lor't'\f  Sticrijirt'y  which  treats  of  a  more  advanced  de- 
gree of"  forbidden  love  than  Tbf  Broktfi  Heart,  arouses 
in  the  reader  a  mingled  feeling  of  admiration  and  dis- 
gust. It  is  not  so  evenly  and  carefully  composed  as  The 
Broken  Heart.  It  admits  unenlivening  comic  scenes 
and  an  extensive  and  repulsive  sub-plot.  It  employs 
prose  freely,  whereas  "The  Broken  Heart  is  entirely  in 
verse.  Finally  its  moral  issues  are  very  badly  defined, 
and  it  ends  weakly  in  dense  moral   confusion.    On  the 


31ntioDuctton  xxix 

other  hand,  the  plot  of  Love'' s  Sacrijice  is  a  more  mocl- 
ern  conception.  The  principal  characters  are  drawn 
with  a  bolder  and  more  energetic  stroke.  The  atmos- 
phere has  a  warmth  and  color  not  found  in  the  Spartan 
play.  And  in  the  two  or  three  best  scenes  there  is  a 
sheer  dramatic  intensity  unsurpassed  elsewhere  in  Ford's 
work. 

Love* s  Sacrifice  is  distinctly  modern  in  conception, 
for  it  deals  scricnisly  with  "  elective  allinilies  "  after 
marriage.  The  Duke  of  CarafFa  loves  and  marries  Bi- 
anca,  a  respectable  woman  of  inferior  rank,  who  re- 
spects her  luisband's  position  and  virtues  but  feels  no 
great  affection  for  him.  Then  appears  Fernando,  young, 
handsome,  captivating,  the  third  person  of  what  we 
have  learned  to  call  the  ** inevitable  triangle."  lie  con- 
ceives a  vi(ilent  passion  for  Bianca,  which,  as  often  as 
he  declares,  she  virtuously  repulses.  But  these  oft-re- 
peated protestations  of  love,  though  they  do  not  at  once 
conquer  her  will,  insidiously  take  possession  of  her 
heart.  The  critical  turn  in  the  unequal  duel  is  subtly 
conceived.  In  a  moment  of  utuisual  temptation  Ivr- 
nando  renews  his  fiery  pleading,  and  once  more  l>i- 
anca  with  greater  vehemence  and  asperity  than  ever 
s{)urns  him  fron)  her.  The  imjictuous  lover  is  at  last 
touchetl  in  his  better  self  by  her  constancy,  and  begs 
forgiveness;  which  being  granted,  they  bid  each  other 
good-night. 

But  alas  for  the  perverse  reactions  of  the  human 
spirit!  Bianca's  virtue  has  cooled  F'ernando's  passion; 
but  Bianca's  passion  is  kindled  by  Fernando's  virtue. 
While  he  assailed  her,  siie  stood  on  her  guard;  when  he 


XXX  31ntrotmction 

desists  from  his  attack,  her  defenses  tall.  Distraught 
with  stifled  emotions,  she  steals  into  Fernando' s  cham- 
ber, clad  only  in  her  night  mantle,  and  finds  him 
sleeping.  His  quick  forgett'ulness  bewilders  her.  She 
wakes  him,  and,  as  if  frenzied  by  some  demoniac  power, 
lays  bare  her  soul  in  an  agony  of  confession,  in  shame 
and  in  sorrow: 

Howe'er  my  tongue 

Did  often  chide  thy  love,  each  word  thou  spak'st 

Was  music  to  my  ear;  was  never  poor, 

Poor  wretched  woman  liv'd  that  lov'd  like  me, 

So  truly,  so  unfeignedly. 

I  vow'd  a  vow  to  live  a  constant  wife  : 
1  have  done  so  5  nor  was  there  in  the  world 
A  man  created  could  have  broke  that  truth 
For  all  tlie  glories  of  the  earth  but  thou, 
But  thou,  Fernando  !  Do  I  love  thee  now  ? 

Fernando,  amazed  by  her  abandonment  to  a  passion  so 
much  more  imperious  than  his  own,  can  only  gasp, 
**  Beyond  imagination!  '*    She  hurries  breathlessly  on: 

True,  I  do. 
Beyond  imagination:  if  no  pledge 
Of  love  can  instance  what  I  speak  is  true 
But  loss  of  my  best  joys,  here,  here,  Fernando, 
Be  satisfied,  and  ruin  me. 

Again  Fernando  is  so  stunned  that  she  has  to  make  very 
clear  what  she  means.  But  on  the  heels  of  surrender 
she  cries: 

Mark  me  now, 
If  thou  dost  spoil  me  of  this  robe  of  shame, 
By  my  best  comforts,  here  I  vow  again, 
To  thee,  to  heaven,  to  the  world,  to  time, 
Ere  yet  the  morning  shall  new-christen  day, 
I'll  kill  myself! 


3flntroDiiction  xxxi 

Say  what  we  will  of  the  character  of  this  woman  — ^ 
and  there  is  little  question  what  we  shall  have  to  say  — 
here  is  the  very  whirlwind  of  conflicting  emotions.  It  is 
doubtless  a  situation  which  should  never  be  shown  upon 
the  stage;  but  it  is  wonderfully  realized.  It  is  morbid; 
but  it  is  terrific  —  this  love  which  must  express  its  utter- 
most, though  the  cost  be  death.  Beside  the  tragic  tem- 
pest in  the  body  and  soul  of  the  woman,  Fernando's 
ardor  seems  but  a  little  warmth  of  the  blood.  He  shrinks 
before  the  storm  he  has  raised,  and,  scarcely  more 
from  consideration  than  from  terror,  he  refuses  her  sacri- 
fice. The  momentous  meeting  ends  with  mutual  vows 
of  love  which  is  to  keep  on  the  hither  side  of  criminal 
realization. 

Up  to  this  point  the  main  story  is  conducted  with 
great  strength  and  skill.  The  characters  arc  clearly  con- 
ceived and  consistently  portrayed.  The  action  is  clean 
and  swift,  with  telling  interplay  of  opposed  wills 
strained  in  the  crisis  to  the  breaking  point  on  the  brink 
of  disastrous  decision.  But  after  the  supremely  dra- 
matic niitlnight  meeting  Bianca  and  l^'ernando  begin  to 
lose  their  bearings,  and  unhappily  Ford  seems  to  lose 
his  bearings,  too.  The  lovers  grow  less  and  less  Pla- 
tonic; their  pledges  prove  poor  shifts  with  the  devil.  In 
the  fifth  act  they  are  indulging  in  dangerous  specula- 
tions.   Bianca  speaks: 

Why  sliouldst  thou  not  he  mine  ?    Why  should  the  laws, 

The  iron  laws  of  ceremony,  bar 

Mutual  embraces?    What's  a  vow?  a  vow  ? 

Can  there  he  sin  in  unity  ? 


xxxii  31ntroDuctton 

I  had  rather  change  my  life 
With  any  waiting-woman  in  the  land 
To  purchase  one  night's  rest  with  thee,  Fernando, 
Than  be  Caraffa's  spouse  a  thousand  years. 

The  duke  interrupts  their  embraces  with  drawn  sword. 
Instead  of  showing  fear  or  imploring  pardon,  Bianca 
turns  hussy,  flaunts  her  love  for  Fernando,  and  courts 
death,  although  at  the  same  time  she  declares  that  she 
is  innocent.  Goaded  at  length  to  fury,  the  duke  gives 
her  a  mortal  wound.  Bianca  dies  with  these  extraordi- 
nary words  on  her  lips: 

Live  to  repent  too  late.     Commend  my  love 
To  thy  true  friend,  my  love  to  him  that  owes  it; 
My  tragedy  to  theej  my  heart  to  —  to —  Fernando. 

And  so  the  tragic  heroine  passes  away  without  a  thought 
of  repentance,  without  a  shadow  of  suspicion  that 
she  has  anything  of  which  to  repent.  Indeed  she  ac- 
cepts her  martyrdom,  confident  of  her  innocence  as  a 
very  Desdemona.  Her  great  love  for  Fernando  she 
wears  as  a  crown  of  glory.  Yet,  it  is  sufficiently  plain, 
though  she  has  abstained  from  the  sin  of  the  flesh,  that 
her  mind  is  as  spotted  with  adultery  as  the  merest 
strumpet's. 

Moreover,  from  this  scene  to  the  end  of  the  play  it 
is  indubitable  that  Ford  takes  precisely  Bianca' s  posi- 
tion —  that  he  wishes  to  leave  the  impression  that  she 
is  a  perfectly  irreproachable  woman.  He  makes  Fer- 
nando assure  the  duke's  counsellors  that  **  a  better 
woman  never  blessed  the  earth."  They  agree,  and 
take  his  side  against  the  **  jealous  madman,"  her  hus- 
band.   At  the  point  of  death  Fernando  assures  the  duke 


31ntroi5uction  xxxiii 

that  the  world's  wealth  could  not  redeem  the  loss  of" 
**  such  a  spotless  wife."  The  duke  agrees,  and  repents 
of  his  **  hellish  rage,"  declaring  that  **so  chaste,  so 
dear  a  wife"  no  man  ever  enjoyed.  His  faithful  sec- 
retary, who  first  awakened  his  suspicions,  is  to  be 
hanged  on  the  prison  top  as  a  damned  villain  till  he 
starve  to  death.  He  looks  upon  himself —  so  do  the 
rest  —  as  a  rash  murderer.  In  remorse  he  commits 
suicide,  having  first  given  orders  that  he  be  buried  in 
one  tomb  with  his  chaste  wife  and  his  **  unequalled 
friend,"  Fernando!  And  in  his  last  breath  he  hopes 
that  his  fate  will  be  a  warning  to  jealous  husbands. 

Now  the  conclusion  of  this  play  must  seem  to  every 
person  of  normal  sense  singularly  wrong,  weak,  and 
futile.  In  the  beginning  of  it  every  one  knows  what  is 
decent;  in  the  middle  Fernando  and  Bianca  grow  skep- 
tical as  to  what  is  decent;  in  the  end  no  one  knows  what 
is  decent — -  not  even  the  author.  That  is  the  impression 
Love^ s  Sacrifice  makes  upon  the  modern  reader.  Never- 
theless, Ford  would  doubtless  have  denied  that  there  had 
been  any  moral  vacillation  on  his  part;  and,  indeed,  it  is 
not  difficult  to  show  that  he  has  treated  his  theme  in  per- 
fect consistency  with  his  romantic  convictions.  Love,  as 
he  had  declared  in  Honour  Triumpha?ity  he  regarded 
as  the  supreme  good  in  life  and  as  the  irresistible  master 
of  the  destinies  of  those  whom  it  has  joined  together. 
Bianca  and  Fernando,  therefore,  in  loving  each  other 
even  unto  death  are  not  only  fulfilling  their  inevitable 
destinies,  but  are  also  pursuing  their  supreme  good.  Of 
course.  Ford  might  say,  it  was  unfortunate  that  they  did 
not  meet  before  Bianca  was  married.    That  was  their 


xxxiv  31mroDuctiou 

fatal  misfortune;  that  was  their  tragedy.  Yet  on  the 
whole  how  nobly  they  conducted  themselves  under 
the  stress  of  adverse  circumstances.  They  recognized  the 
general  force  of  the  matrimonial  bond,  and  they  with- 
held from  their  love  its  natural  sustenance  in  order  not 
to  violate  that  bond.  As  for  refraining  from  love  itself, 
that  were  as  impossible  as  drawing  the  stars  from  their 
courses.  Even  the  jealous  husband,  then,  must  confess 
that  they  conformed  to  the  limit  ot  their  power  with 
the  conventions  of  this  somewhat  helter  skelter  world. 
In  some  such  tashion  as  this  Ford  himself  must  have  jus- 
tified the  work. 

'  Tis  Pity  is  extremely  interesting  both  as  a  play  and 
as  a  psychological  document;  for  it  represents  the  height 
of  Ford's  achievement  as  a  dramatist  and  the  depth  of 
his  corruption  as  an  apostle  ot  passion.  The  utterances 
of  critics  upon  it  from  the  seventeenth  century  to  the 
present  day  emphasize  the  necessitv  of  a  divided  judg- 
ment. Langbaine  declared  "that  it  equals  any  of  our 
author's  plays;  and  were  to  be  commended,  did  not  the 
author  paint  the  incestuous  love  between  Giovanni  and 
his  sister  Annabella  in  too  beautiful  colours."  Lamb 
pointed  out  that  "even  in  the  poor  perverted  reason  of 
Giovanni  and  Annabella,  we  discover  traces  ot  that  fiery 
particle,  which  in  the  irregular  starting  from  out  of  the 
road  of  beaten  action,  discovers  something  of  a  right 
line  even  in  obliquity,  and  shows  hints  of  an  improv- 
able greatness  in  the  lowest  descents  and  degradations 
of  our  nature."  Git^brd  substantially  reiterated  the 
sentiments  of  Langbaine:  "It  [the  poetry]  is  in  truth 
too  seductive  tor  the  subject,  and  flings  a  soft  and  sooth- 


introduction  xxxv 

ing  light  over  what  in  its  natural  state  would  glare  with 
salutary  and  repulsive  horror."  Fleay  is  even  more 
biting;  he  says:  **  Well  allowed  of,  when  acted,  by  the 
Earl  of  Peterborough  to  whom  he  dedicated  it.  So  it  is 
now  by  some  critics  and  publishers  .  .  .  but  not  by 
any  well  regulated  mind."  In  connection  with  Fleay's, 
the  comment  of  Ellis  is  striking:  "In  'T/j  /*//y,"  says 
Ellis,  **Ford  touched  the  highest  point  that  he  ever 
reached.  He  never  succeeded  in  presenting  an  image 
so  simple,  passionate,  and  complete,  so  free  compara- 
tively from  mixture  of  weak  or  base  elements  as  that  of 
the  boy  and  girl  lovers  who  were  brother  and  sister. 
The  tragic  story  is  unrolled  from  first  to  last  with  fine 
truth  and  clear  perceptions."  Ward  says,  **  The 
poison  of  this  poetic  treatment  of  mortal  sin  is  dissolved 
in  a  cup  of  sweetness."  Schelling  finds  in  it  **  consum- 
mate poetic  art  ...  a  strange  and  unnatural  origi- 
nality like  a  gorgeous  and  scented  but  poisonous  exotic 
of  the  jungle." 

Of  all  these  criticisms  Lamb's  seems  to  me  the  most 
penetrating  and  the  most  illuminating.  Speaking  in  his 
poetical  Brunonian  fashion  of  **  that  fiery  particle  "  and 
the  **  something  of  a  right  line  even  in  obliquity  "  he 
touches  upon  the  intense  romantic  idealism  which 
marks  all  Ford's  lovers,  and  which  is  the  fundamental 
and  controlling  spirit  in  all  Ford's  most  characteristic 
work.  It  will  not  do  to  attribute  his  amazing  attempt 
to  excite  sympathy  for  the  depraved  hero  and  heroine  to 
the  general  spirit  of  the  time  ;  the  unnatural  passion 
which  is  the  theme  of  his  play  was  quite  as  abhorrent  to 
common  feelings  in  the  age  of  Charles  I.  as  it  is  today. 


xxxvi  3|ntroliuction 

Indeed,  there  is  some  evidence  that  it  was  even  more 
abhorrent.  In  the  Calendar  of  State  Papers  for  1631  y 
two  years  before  the  publication  of  *  lis  P/Vy,  is  re- 
corded under  the  date  of  May  12  a  **  sentence  of  the 
ecclesiastical  commissioners  upon  Sir  Giles  Allington  for 
intermarrying  with  Dorothy  Dalton,  daughter  of  Mi- 
chael Dalton  and  his  wife,  which  latter  was  half-sister  to 
Sir  Giles."  A  few  days  later  the  Rev.  Joseph  Mead 
writing  to  Sir  Martin  Stuteville  dwells  upon  the  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  trial  at  which  eight  bishops  presided, 
and  upon  the  heavy  penalties  imposed,  which  included 
a  fine  of  ^2000  upon  the  procurer  of  the  license.  In 
conclusion  Mead  writes:  **  It  was  the  solemnest,  the 
gravest  and  the  severest  censure  that  ever,  they  say, 
was  made  in  that  court."  ' 

It  is  possible  that  this  case,  doubtless  the  talk  of  Lon- 
don, mav  have  suggested  to  Ford  the  composition  of 
'T/'j  P//y.  It  was  exactly  the  situation  to  appeal  to  his 
sympathies  as  a  poet  and  to  his  interest  as  a  lawyer. 
Here  again,  as  in  the  Devonshire -Rich  affair,  the  im- 
pulses of  the  heart  were  in  conflict  with  the  world's 
laws  as  defined  by  the  ecclesiastical  court.  The  Bishop 
of  London  had  pronounced  Sir  Giles  Allington 's  mar- 
riage a  most  heinous  crime.  But  Ford  did  not  look  to 
bishops  for  his  moral  judgments;  his  court  of  last  appeal 
was  the  small  circle  of  those  unfettered  spirits  who  re- 
cognized a  kind  of  higher  morality  in  obedience  to  the 
heart.  It  would  at  any  rate  have  accorded  with  his 
temper  and  his  previous  work  to  write  a  play  presenting 
a  case  of  incest  much  more  flagrant  than  that  before  the 

*    Court  and  Times  of  Charles  /.,  vol.  11,  p.   119. 


^Introduction  xxxvii 

public  yet  so  veiled  with  poetical  glamour  as  to  elicit 
for  the  criminals  both  pity  and  admiration.  That,  at 
least,  is  what  he  did. 

He  approaches  the  theme  not  with  the  temper  of  a 
stern  realist  bent  on  laying  bare  the  secret  links  of  cause 
and  effect  in  a  ferocious  and  ugly  story  of  almost  un- 
mentionable lust  and  crime,  but  with  the  temper  of  a 
decadent  romanticist  bent  on  showing  the  enthralling 
power  of  physical  beauty  and  the  transfiguring  power 
of  passion.  He  accordingly  makes  the  ill-starred  Gio- 
vanni and  Annabella  the  well-bred  offspring  of  a  pros- 
perous gentleman  of  Parma.  The  young  man  has  had 
every  opportunity  of  religious  training,  study  at  the 
university,  and  intercourse  with  good  society.  The  girl, 
brought  up  carefully  in  her  father's  house,  is  endowed 
with  every  grace  of  mind  and  body,  and  is  flattered  by 
the  attention  of  distinguished  suitors. 

But  like  their  author  they  have  been  nourished  on 
that  great  mass  of  Renaissance  literature  which  in  Italy 
and  in  England  establishes  the  religion  and  theology  of 
earthly  love.  In  the  opening  scene  Giovanni,  already 
in  the  throes  of  passion,  fortifies  himself  with  philo- 
sophical authority,  casuistical  argument,  and  Platonic 
nonsense  quite  in  the  vein  of  Spenser's  hymns.  Shock- 
ing as  it  is,  we  must  recognize  that  this  blossomed 
corruption  is  rooted  in  the  fair  garden  of  Elizabethan 
romance.  To  Giovanni,  as  to  the  youthful  Spenser, 
love  is  the  supreme  thing  in  the  world,  beauty  the  un- 
questioned object  of  adoration.  Since  he  finds  this 
adorable  beauty  in  his  sister,  his  soul  conforming  to 
its  celestial  nature  must  bow  and  worship.    Duty  in  its 


xxxviii  31ntrolmction 

ordinary  sense  is  not  in  this  field  at  all;  the  soul's  duty 
is  complete  submission  to  the  divinity  ot  beauty  — 

Must  I  not  praise 
That  luMuty  which,  if  tVam'd  anew,  the  gods 
Would  make  a  god  of,  it  they  had  it  there, 
And  kneel  to  it,  as  I  do  kneel  to  them  ? 

This  note  is  struck  again  and  again;  thus  in  complaint: 

The  love  of  thee,  my  sister,  and  the  view 
Of  thy  immortal  beauty  have  untun'd 
All  harmony  both  of  my  rest  and  life. 

Thus  argumentatively: 

Wise  nature  first  in  your  creation  meant 

To  make  you  mine,  else't  had  been  sin  and  foul 

To  share  one  beauty  to  a  double  soul. 

In  another  more  extended  passage  he  actually  makes 
the  Platonic  identification  of  the  good  and  the  beautiful, 
repeating  in  part  exactly  the  argument  which  Ford  had 
employed  in  Honour  Triumphant  when  defending  the 
position,  **  Fair  lady  was  never  false  "  : 

What  I  have  done  I'll  prove  both  fit  and  good. 

It  is  a  principle  which  you  have  taught, 

When  I  was  yet  your  scholar,  that  the  frame 

And  composition  of  the  mind  doth  follow 

The  frame  and  composition  ot  the  body: 

So  where  the  body's  furniture  is  beauty, 

The  mind's  must  needs  be  virtue  j  which  allow'd, 

Virtue  itself  is  reason  but  refin'd, 

And  love  the  quintessence  of  that:  this  proves, 

My  sister's  beauty  being  rarely  fair 

Is  rarely  virtuous;  chieHy  in  her  love, 

And  chiefly  in  that  love,  her  love  to  me. 

According  to   the   romantic  creed   the  worship  of 
beauty  is  not  inercly  the  soul's  duty;  it  is  also  the  soul's 


JlntroUuction  xxxix 

necessity.  Hence  Ciiovanni's  reiterated  accent  upon 
fate : 

Lost  !    I  am  lost !    my  fates  have  doom'd  my  death: 
The  more  I  strive  I  love. 

Giovanni  ilistinguislics  between  the  common  motions 
of  the  blood  and  the  inexorable  power  not  himself: 

Or  I  must  speak  or  burst.    'Tis  not,  I  know, 
My  lust,  but  'tis  my  fate  that  leads  mc  on 

He  recognizes  that  resistance  to  this  power  is  mortal: 

'Tis  my  destiny 
That  you  must  either  love,  or  I  must  die. 

Under  the  stress  of  his  passion  Giovanni  becomes 
an  absolutely  uncompromising  exponent  of  Ford's  ro- 
mantic idealism.  Fn  the  first  part  of  the  play  he  exhibits 
some  regard,  though  slight  respect,  for  ordinary  mo- 
rality. But  he  is  soon  brushing  aside  his  scruples  with 
the  impatient  inquiry: 

Shall  a  peevish  sound, 
A  customary  form,  from  man  to  man. 
Of  brother  and  of  sister,  be  a  bar 
'Twixt  my  perpetual  happiness  and  me  ? 

And  before  long  he  has  resolved  that  prayer  and  heaven 
and  sin  are  **  dreams  and  old  men's  tales  to  fright  un- 
steady youth."  In  this  conviction  he  is  confirmed  by 
Annabclla's  acknowledgment  that  he  had  captivated 
her  heart  long  before  he  challenged  her  to  surrender. 
By  making  her  yield  at  once  with  an  abandon  equal  to 
Giovanni's  Ford  plainly  intends  to  show  that  the  souls 
of  the  brother  and  sister  were  predestined  for  union  in 
that  Platonic  heaven  of  lovers  whence  they  came.  With 


xl  JflntroDuction 

this  conviction  strong  upon  them  both,  they  fall  upon 
their  knees  and  vow  the  most  astounding  vow  by  the 
sacredness  of  their  mother's  ashes  to  be  true  one  to 
the  other.  It  is  the  passionate  fidelity  of  Giovanni  to  his 
vow,  his  desperate  single-mindedness,  which  lends  to 
-this  terrible  transaction  its  evil  splendor.  Later,  under 
the  shadow  of  impending  doom,  the  Friar  makes  a  vain 
effort  to  shake  the  young  man's  resolution.  If  it  were 
possible  for  a  moment  to  forget  the  monstrosity  of  the 
affair,  the  fierce  ecstasy  of  Giovanni's  reply  might  stir 
a  tragic  thrill: 

Friar.   The  throne  of  mercy  is  above  your  trespass} 
Yet  time  is  left  you  both  — 

Gio.  To  embrace  each  other, 

Else  let  all  time  be  struck  quite  out  of  number. 

So,  too,  the  martyr-like  rapture  of  Annabella  when, 
her  crime  confessed,  she  is  threatened  by  her  husband 
with  instant  death: 

Che  morte  piu  dolce  eke  morire  per  amore  f 

and  as  he  hales  her  up  and  down  by  the  hair: 

Morendo  in  gra'zia  dee  morire  sen-za  dolore. 

As  the  fatal  net  closes  around  the  lovers.  Ford  seems 

to  summon  all  his  powers   to  represent  their  misery  as 

the  price  of  their  devotion  to  the  highest  ends  of  which 

their  souls  are  capable.    Giovanni  nerves  himself  to  take 

vengeance  upon  his  enemies  that  when  he  falls  he  may 

die  a  **  glorious  death."    He  slays  his  sister —  not  in 

.a  blind  rage,  but  to  save  her  from  the  vile  world  — 

tenderly  and  with  a  kiss  and  crying: 

Go  thou,  white  in  thy  soul,  to  fill  a  throne 

>— -  Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven. 


3(IntroUuction  xU 

Then  turning  away  as  from  the  sacrifice  of  a  white 
lamb  without  blemish  to  the  god  of  love,  this  fervid 
idealist,  fresh  from  adultery,  incest  and  murder,  bids 
his  heart  stand  up  and  act  its  **  last  and  greatest  part  " 
—  another  murder!  Dying,  he  seals  with  his  last 
breath  his  faith  in  the  passion  that  has  wrecked  his  life: 

Where'er  I  go,  let  me  enjoy  this  grace, 
Freely  to  view  my  Annabella's  face. 

Now  it  appears  to  me  incontestable  that  a  dramatist 
who  seeks  such  effects  as  '  Tis  Pity  produces  must  write 
with  a  conscious  and  clearly-defined  theory.  Ford  can- 
not be  explained  as  an  imitator  of  his  contemporaries; 
for  his  impressive  attempt  to  make  his  auditors  believe 
in  the  whitenesss  of  a  soul  despite  the  abhorrent  pollu- 
tion of  its  fleshly  envelope  is  without  precedent  in  the 
English  drama  of  his  age. '  The  man  is  original  in  his 
fundamental  conception  of  the  nature  of  tragedy.  I  am 
not  sure,  with  Havelock  Ellis,  that  Ford  **  foreboded 
new  ways  of  expression  " ;  his  analytic  power,  so 
much  commented  upon  by  his  critics,  he  shares  with 
Shakespeare  and  Middleton  and  Webster.  I  think  it 
clear,  however,  that,  so  far  as  English  drama  is  con- 
cerned, he  did  forebode  a  modern  conception  of  the 
tragic  conflict.  That  is  to  say,  while  his  contemporaries 
continued  to  represent  the  tragic  catastrophe  as  the 
disastrous  issue  of  a  clash  between  good  and  evil,  he 

^  There  is  sufficient  non-dramatic  precedent;  compare  these  lines 
from  Spenser's  "  Hymne  in  Honour  of  Beautie  ": 

Nathelesse  the  soule  is  faire  and  beauteous  still, 
How  ever  fleshes  fault  it  filthy  make; 
For  things  immortal  no  corruption  take- 


xiii  3|ntroliuction 

seized  the  subtler  and  more  bitter  and  less  salutary  no- 
tion, familiar  enough  to-day,  that  the  tragic  catastrophe 
results  from  the  clash  of  the  relative  good  with  the  ab- 
solute good.  In  other  words,  he  foreboded  a  new  way 
of  envisaging  morality.  Recall  Giovanni's  valediction 
to  the  soul  of  his  sister,  and  then  read  these  words 
from  Maurice  Maeterlinck's  '  Treasure df  the  Humble : 

*<  It  would  seem  as  though  our  code  of  morality  were 
changing,  advancing  with  timid  steps  toward  loftier  re- 
gions that  cannot  be  seen.  And  the  moment  has  perhaps 
come  when  certain  new  questions  should  be  asked.  .  .  . 
What  would  happen  if  the  soul  were  brought  into  a  tri- 
bunal of  souls?  Of  what  would  she  be  ashamed?  Which 
are  the  things    she  fain  would  hide?  Would  she,  like  a 

^  It  is  noteworthy  in  this  connection  that  Maeterlinck  has  adapted 
T/i  Fity  for  the  modern  stage:  see  Bibliography.  M.  Maeterlinck 
is,  of  course,  also  familiar  with  Platonic  and  Neo-Platonic  theories. 
His  modern  heresy  is  simply  a  resuscitation  of  an  obsolete,  poetical 
commonplace. 

Charles  Lamb  rather  curiously  quoted  as  comment  upon  his  selec- 
tion from  this  play  a  sonorous  passage  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's  Fseu- 
dodoxia  Epidemica,  of  which  this  is  the  gist:  "  Of  sins  heteroclital, 
and  such  as  want  either  name  or  precedent,  there  is  oft-times  a  sin  even 
in  their  histories."  Weber,  Gifford,  and  Dyce  in  their  complete  edi- 
tions of  the  tragedy  have  with  even  less  appositeness  reproduced  the 
passage.  Loath  to  depart  from  the  fine  tradition  —  now  a  century 
old  —  of  remembering  Browne  on  this  occasion,  I  respectfully  sug- 
gest to  future  editors  of  Ford  the  substitution  of  the  following  maxims 
from  Christian  Morals :  "  Live  by  old  ethics  and  the  classical  rules 
of  honesty.  Put  no  new  names  or  notions  upon  authentic  virtues 
and  vices.  Think  not  that  morality  is  ambulatory^  that  vices  in  one 
age  are  not  vices  in  another;  or  that  virtues,  which  are  under  the 
everlasting  seal  of  right  reason,  may  be  stamped  by  opinion.  And 
therefore  though  vicious  times  invert  the  opinions  of  things,  and 
set  up  a  new  ethics  against  virtue,  yet  hold  thou  unto  old  morality." 


31ntrotiuction  xHii 

bashful  maiden,  cloak  beneath  her  long  hair  the  number- 
less sins  of  the  flesh?  She  knows  not  of  them,  and  those 
sins  have  never  come  near  her.  They  were  committed  a 
thousand  miles  from  her  throne;  and  the  soul  even  of  the 
prostitute  would  pass  unsuspectingly  through  the  crowd, 
with  the  transparent  smile  of  the  child  in  her  eyes." 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  Maeterlinck's  mystical 
theory  —  I,  for  one,  consider  it  beautiful  and  pernicious 
nonsense  —  it  is  worth  while  to  observe  that  his  dra- 
matic illustration  of  it  is  entirely  different  from  Ford's. 
He  has  the  tact  to  perceive  that  plays  built  upon  this 
theory  have  no  place  upon  the  realistic  stage.  He  is 
even  doubtful  whether  genuine  tragedies  of  the  spirit 
can  be  fitly  represented  by  actors  at  all.  They  must 
touch  the  sympathy  of  the  reader  invisibly  as  he  sits 
brooding  in  quietness,  and  like  the  indefinable  appeal 
of  music  be  felt  rather  than  understood.  Accordingly  in 
his  earlier  work  Maeterlinck  divested  his  scene  of  every 
reminder  of  the  gross  and  to  him  insignificant  physical 
world,  in  order  to  make  clear  a  stage  for  the  interaction 
of  almost  disembodied  spirits.  In  the  dim  light  of  the 
wan  Arthurian  realm  where  his  tragedies  are  set,  the 
passions  ebb  and  flow  with  the  tides  of  an  unplumbed 
and  uncharted  sea,  by  whose  waters  naked  soul  meets 
naked  soul  under  the  wings  of  destiny.  No  question 
rises  there  of  heredity,  training,  environment;  for  only 
immortal  and  immaterial  essences  are  there  engaged; 
and  they  cannot  be  affected  by  these  mortal  and  ma- 
terial forces. 

Ford's  theory  of  the  inviolability  of  the  soul  has 
much  in  common  with  Maeterlinck's.    It  seems,  how- 


xiiv  3|ntroUuction 

ever,  much  more  startling  because  it  is  clothed  in  very 
human  flesh  and  blood,  and  set  upon  a  realistic  stage. 
Ford  presents  his  hero  and  heroine,  for  such  they  must 
be  called,  in  the  light  of  common  day.  He  prepares  us 
for  a  tragedy  in  which  we  should  witness  the  operation 
of  the  laws  of  this  world;  but  he  presents  us  a  tragedy  in 
which  the  protagonists  are  emancipated  from,  the  laws 
of  this  world,  and  act  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  a 
Platonized  Arcadia.  They  are  idealists  in  one  world, 
but  criminal  degenerates  in  the  other. 

The  originality  of  'TVj  Pity  has  been  pretty  gen- 
erally conceded,  at  least  by  English  critics;  but  it  has 
not  always  been  made  sufficiently  clear  that  the  origi- 
nality lies  in  the  treatment  and  not  in  the  choice  of  the 
theme.  As  a  matter  of  fact  this  subject  was  handled  by 
several  of  Ford's  important  contemporaries,  and  it  may 
be  worth  while  briefly  to  indicate  their  decisively  difi^er- 
ent  method  of  approaching  it.  The  crime  here  involved 
constitutes,  it  will  be  recalled,  one  of  the  iniquitous 
elements  in  the  marriage  of  Claudius  and  Gertrude  in 
Hamlety  and  it  furnishes  a  shuddering  background  of 
horror  for  the  first  act  oi  Pericles.  To  the  healthy  mind 
of  Shakespeare  it  is  clearly  a  matter  abhorrent.  It  is  a 
part  of  a  tangled  web  of  lust  which  Tourneur  made  into 
the  Revenger'' s  Tragedy.  But  though  Tourneur  chose 
corrupt  material,  he  dealt  with  it  in  a  sound  fashion. 
With  him  there  was  no  poetical  glozing,  no  veil  of  il- 
lusion cloaking  the  beast,  no  scape-goat  fate  occupying 
the  place  of  the  abdicating  will,  no  **  higher  morality'* 
subtly  aspersing  common  decency.  When  his  charac- 
ters commit   gross    or   unnatural  crimes,  he   makes  it 


31ntroi)uction  xlv 

perfectly  apparent  that  the  moving  force  is  bestial  drunk-, 
enness  or  physical  degeneracy,  not  celestial  foreordina- 
tion.   Thus  the  incestuous  Spurio  cries: 

1  was  begot  in  impudent  wine  and  lust. 
Step-mother,  I  consent  to  thy  desires. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  KiTig  and  No  King  has  for 
its  central  theme  the  love  of  Arbaces  for  his  supposed 
sister,  Panthea.  But  in  the  end  it  transpires  that  Arbaces 
is  a  changeling,  and  in  reality  not  related  at  all  to  Pan- 
thea. Nevertheless  the  authors  do  not  wholly  rely  upon 
the  unexpected  denouement  to  explain  the  moral  aberra- 
tion of  the  hero.  They  tell  us  in  the  first  place  that  Pan- 
thea was  but  nine  years  old  when  Arbaces  left  her  not 
to  return  till  she  had  reached  her  maturity ;  consequently 
he  appears  to  be  smitten  rather  with  a  fair  stranger  than 
with  a  sister.  And  in  the  second  place  they  spare  no 
pains  to  present  him  as  a  man  of  abnormally  violent  and 
unruly  temperament.  Furthermore,  when  after  fearful 
struggles  his  passion  begins  to  master  him,  he  does  not 
justify  himself  as  an  apostle  of  love  and  beauty  and  their 
**  higher"  reasonableness;  on  the  contrary  he  declares: 

I  have  lost 
The  only  difference  betwixt  man  and  beast, 
My  reason. 

And  Panthea,  instead  of  admitting  with  Annabella 
that  her  lover  has  *<won  the  field  and  never  fought," 
swears  that  she  would  rather  *<  search  out  death"  than 
** welcome  such  a  sin."  Fortunately  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher  rescue  her  from  the  predicament  by  showing 
that  the  dilemma  never  existed.    In  Brome's  Love- Sick 


xlvi  idntrotiuction 

Court  the  supposedly  incestuous  passion,  which  is  a 
subsidiary  element    in   the  play,  is  in  a   similar  way 

-  proved  innocent  by  disclosures  in  the  last  act.  Between 
Middleton's  Women  Beware  Women  and  '  Tis  Pity 
there  is  a  very  considerable  parallelism  of  situation;  in 
both  plays  there  is  a  group  of  uncle,  nephew  and  ser- 
vant engaged  in  the  courtship  of  a  woman  already  in- 

l^volved  in  criminal  relations  with  a  near  kinsman.  But 
parallelism  of  treatment  there  is  not.  For  one  thing,  the 
criminal  relationship  is  entered  upon  in  partial  ignorance 
of  its  nature;  for  another,  there  is  not  the  slightest  at- 
tempt to  idealize  the  character  of  the  union.  The  play 
is  constructed  by  a  realist  who  is  interested  in  showing 
how  crime  punishes  itself  by  natural  laws.  In  the  Un- 
natural Combat —  of  which  the  title  alone  suggests  a 
significant  difference  from  ^  Tis  Pity — Massinger  pre- 
sents a  situation  similar  to  that  of  Shelley's  Cenci,  and 
treats  it  with  artistic  seriousness  and  the  most  uncom- 
promising moral  severity.  He  prepares  the  way  for 
Malefort's  ultimate  degradation  by  making  him  the  pois- 
oner of  his  wife  and  the  murderer  of  his  son  before  he 
becomes  the  lover  of  his  daughter.  And  yet  he  makes 
even  Malefort  shudder  before  his  last  temptation  and 
clearly  recognize  its  character:  Malefort,  infinitely 
wickeder  and  wiser  than  Giovanni,  says  in  so  many 
words  that  the  torch  which  kindles  his  wild  desires  was 
not  lighted  at  Cupid's  altars,  but  was  thrown  into  his 
bosom  from  hell.  Vile  though  he  is,  he  possesses  the 
moral  vision  and  candor  of  the  Shakesperean  villain. 
His  passion,  needless  to  say,  is  not  reciprocated.  He 
dies,  not   like  Giovanni   resolute  and  unshaken  in  his 


^Introduction  xlvii 

sinister  idealism  but  rather  like  Marlowe's  Faustus,  in 
terrific  moral  agony,  cursing  his  *«  cause  of  being."  The 
tragedy  ends  with  a  tremendous  vindication  of  "the 
sacred  laws  of  God  and  man  prophaned";  the  last 
speech  of  Malefort  is  cut  short  by  a  thunderbolt  which 
kills  him.  That  flash  of  lightning  may  fairly  be  consid- 
ered as  Massinger' s  comment  on  incest  —  a  comment, 
on  the  whole,  rather  more  illuminating  and  salutary  than 
the  tearful  couplet  in  which  Ford's  Cardinal  bids  a 
compassionate  adieu  to  Annabella. 

This  examination  of  plays  related  in  subject  to  '  Tis 
Pity  serves  but  to  emphasize  Ford's  independence  of  his 
English  contemporaries  so  far  as  treatment  is  concerned. 
I  have,  nevertheless,  taken  pains  to  say  that  his  attitude 
toward  incestuous  passion  is  without  precedent  in  Eng- 
\lish  drama.  It  is  not  without  precedent  in  ItaUan 
drama.  I  refer  to  a  play  which  so  far  as  I  know  has 
never  been  employed  to  explain  '  Tis  Pity —  Canace  e 
MacareOy  a  tragedy  written  on  classical  models  by 
Sperone  Speroni.  a  distinguished  critic,  orator,  and 
poet  of  the  sixteenth  century.  If,  as  Professor  Schelling 
asserts.  Ford  did  indeed  show  a  remarkable  **  freedom 
from  the  influence  of  Italian  models,* '  ^  the  analogies  be- 
tween these  two  plays,  both  in  plot  and  in  treatment, 
are  surprising.  If  Ford  did  not  write  with  a  knowledge 
of  Speroni's  work,  he  at  least  wrote  thoroughly  in  the 
spirit  of  it.  It  may  even  be  said,  I  think  without  dan- 
ger of  contradiction,  that  Canace  e  Macareo  is  a  more 

^  Elizabethan  Drama^voX.  ii,  p.  333.  The  statement  may  have 
been  influenced  byKoeppel,  ^e/Ien-Studien,  p.  176:  ^^ Ford's  lite- 
rarhches  Lebensiverk  ist  fast  ganz  fret  "von  italienischen  RinfiussenJ'* 


xiviii  3[introt)uction 

plausible  "source**  for  '  77j  Pity  than  anything  that 
has  been  proposed  heretofore. 

The  Italian  play  is  a  humanized  dramatization  of  a 
myth  treated  by  Ovid  in  Heroidesy  xi,  a  frequent  point 
of  reference  for  Elizabethan  casuists.  The  theme  is  the 
tragical  ending  of  the  incestuous  loves  of  Canace  and 
Macareo,  the  fair  son  and  daughter  of  Eolo  (^^Eolus). 
As  in  '  Tis  Pityy  their  criminal  intercourse  is  revealed 
by  its  unhappy  fruit.  On  discovering  the  state  of  affairs, 
Eolo  forces  his  daughter  to  kill  herself.  Macareo  takes 
his  own  life.  As  in  '  Tis  Pityy  the  lovers  die  amid  the 
suspended  gayety  of  a  birthday  celebration.  The  nurse 
of  Canace  corresponds  accurately  in  function  to  the 
"tutoress"  of  Annabella;  the  servant  of  Macareo 
corresponds  roughly  to  the  confessor  of  Giovanni;  and 
there  are  some  other  minor  correspondences. 

The  really  striking  parallelism,  however,  is  in  the 
treatment.  Speroni,  like  Ford,  bends  all  his  energies  to 
the  task  of  soliciting  pity  and  admiration  for  the  un- 
natural lovers.  He,  too,  insists  that  they  are  driven  on 
not  by  lust  but  by  fate  or  divine  foreordering: 

Ma  quel  vero  intelletto,  che  dal  cielo 

Alia  mente  materna 

Mostra  in  sogno  il  mio  error  sotto  alcun  velo, 

Sa  bien  che  '1  mio  peccato, 

Non  malizia  mortale, 

Ma  fu  celeste  forza, 

Che  ogni  nostra  virtu  vince  ed  ammorza. 

He,  too,  makes  his  hero  a  Renaissance  Platonist,  iden- 
tifying the  good  and  the  beautiful  and  the  worship  of 
beauty  with  the  love  of  virtue.  Macareo,  like  Giovanni, 
regards  his  love  as  a  proof  of  his  intelligence: 


3(lntroDuction  xlix 

Amo  infinitamente  e  volentieri 

Le  bellezze,  i  costumi,  e  le  virtuti 

Di  mia  sorella,  e  parmi 

Che  indegnamente  degno 

Saria  di  sentimento  e  di  ragione, 

Chi  si  rare  eccellenze  non  amasse, 

Ovunque  ei  le  trovasse. 

When  danger  threatens,  Macareo  is  ready  to  rush 
on  death  without  fear,  for  the  fatal  blade  will  release 
from  the  erring  flesh  his  immaculate  soul  {^Panima  im- 
maculata).  In  the  other  world  he  hopes  to  be  reunited 
to  his  sister;  even  the  verbal  parallelism  is  close  here. 
Anticipating  Giovanni' s 

Where'er  I  go,  let  me  enjoy  this  grace, 
Freely  to  view  my  Annabella's  face 

Macareo  says: 

In  eterno  vivra  I'anima  mia: 
E  fia  suo  paradiso 
II  poter  vagheggiare 
L'ombra  del  suo  bel  viso. 

Both  lovers  die  unrepentant  and  in  unshaken  loyalty  to 
each  other.  Canace,  on  her  deathbed,  says  that  her  one 
consolation  is  the  knowledge  that  her  name  and  face 
will  live  in  the  heart  of  her  brother,  to  whom  she  sends 
this  message: 

Moriamo  volentieri, 

Tu  per  esser  fedele,  io  per  amare. 

This  is  precisely  the  spirit  of  Annabella's 

Che  morte  piu  dolce  che  morire  per  amore? 

After  the  death  of  the  children,  Eolo  repents  of  his 
part  in  it,  and  declares  that  he  has  earned  for  himself 


1  31ntrot)uction 

eternal  infamy  by  ending  the  lives  of  those  whose  only 
fault  was  that  they  loved.  For,  says  he,  **  present  and 
future  times,  forgetting  their  amorous  errors,  will  blame 
only  my  cruelty."  Here  Eolo  anticipates  the  opinion 
of  Giovanni, 

If  ever  after-times  should  hear 
Of  our  fast-knit  affections,  though  perhaps 
The  laws  of  conscience  and  of  civil  use 
May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour 
Which  would  in  other  incests  be  abhorred. 

Canace  e  Macareo  seems  to  have  impressed  Speroni's 
contemporaries  much  as  '77/  P/'/v  impresses  us  to-day; 
for  in  the  polite  and  learned  circles  of  sixteenth  century 
Italy  it  produced  a  critical  controversy  as  interesting  as 
the  play  itself.  The  summaries  and  fragments  of  the 
lectures  in  defense  of  the  tragedy  delivered  in  the  Acca- 
demia  drgli  Elevnti  in  Padua  are  particularly  illum- 
inating, because  they  express  substantially  what  Ford 
would  probably  have  said  had  he  been  challenged  to 
defend  '  Jh  Pity.  Since  it  is  by  no  means  impossible 
that  Ford  knew  Speroni's  defense  as  well  as  his  drama, 
it  may  not  be  amiss  briefly  to  suggest  the  nature  of  his 
arguments.' 

'  Sperone  Speroni  was  born  in  1500  and  died  in  1588.  As  a 
young  man  he  was  professor  of  logic  at  I'adua.  In  1528  he  re- 
signed his  chair  and  devoted  himself  to  a  life  of  scholarly  leisure. 
In  1546  the  first  authentic  edition  of  Canace  was  published.  This 
tragedy  gave  rise  to  a  critical  controversy  which  continued  inter- 
mittingly  till  1590.  Speroni  was  also  author  of  numerous  critical 
treatises  and  dialogues  on  language,  love,  ladies,  etc.,  and  was  a 
copious  correspondent  with  Italian  poets  and  men  of  letters.  In 
1551  eight  of  the  dialogues  were  translated  into  French.    (Upon  the 


3IntroUuction  li 

The  weightiest  charge  against  Canace  e  Macareo  was 
that  the  chief  characters,  being  thoroughly  vicious 
(^scelerate)y  had  according  to  Aristotelian  panons  no 
place  in  tragedy.  To  this  the  reply  is  made  that  they 
actually  appeared  in  tragedy  of  Aristotle's  day,  and 
that  they  are  not  thoroughly  vicious,  but  middling 
characters,  neither  perfectly  good  nor  perfectly  bad.  In 
this  connection,  Speroni  reminds  his  hearers  of  two  ar- 
guments urged  by  Dejopeja,  wife  of  Eolo.  The  chil- 
dren did  not  deserve  death,  she  maintained,  first, 
because  they  had  merely  done  per  for  za  what  the  gods 
do  per  volonta  in  heaven;  second,  because  they  had 
done  that  in  the  Iron  Age  which  was  permitted  in  the 
innocent  Age  of  Gold.  This  position  is  supported  by 
a  multitude  of  references  to  the  poets.  Then,  glancing 
at  the  customs  of  the  ancient  Persians  and  Egyptians, 

considerable  fame  and  influence  of  Speroni  in  France  see  La  Sources 
Jtaliennes  de  la  **  Dejfense  et  Illustration  de  la  hangue  Fran^onCy^ 
Pierre  Villey,  Paris,  1908.)  Professor  Spingarn  informs  me  that 
there  are  "  constant  allusions  to  him  in  the  earlier  French  criticism 
—  e.g.y  La  Mesnardiere,  Po'ctique^  1640  ";  it  seems  probable  that 
English  acquaintance  with  him  in  the  seventeenth  century  was  fre- 
quently second  hand.  The  earliest  English  reference  that  1  find  is 
in  Coryat's  Crudities^  1611.  Coryat  describes  the  statue  of  Speroni 
in  the  Palace  at  Padua  and  transcribes  the  Latin  epitaph  beneath 
it.  At  this  time,  says  Coryat,  there  were  1500  students  at  the  uni- 
versity —  among  them  many  Englishmen.  Later  references  and 
allusions  may  be  found  in  Sir  William  Alexander's  Anacrtsit^  ?  1634 
(Spingarn's  Critical  Essays  of  the  Seventeenth  Century ^  I,  185); 
Butler's  Upon  Critics,  ?  1678  {^Critical  Essays,  u,  280)5  Rymer's 
Tragedies  of  the  Last  Age,  1678  (page  77  in  the  second  edition, 
1692)  — Rymer  gives  the  plot  of  Canace  at  some  length  and  dis- 
cusses it;  Dryden's  Syl-vae^  1 685  (Ker's  Essays  of  John  Dryden^  i, 
256). 


Hi  31ntroDuction 

Speroni  comes  to  a  point  of  distinct  coincidence  with 
Ford,  namely,  that  the  union  of  brother  and  sister  is 
forbidden  not  by  nature  but  by  the  laws,  and  not  even 
by  all  laws.  Therefore,  as  the  example  of  the  best 
poets  proves,  things  done  under  the  influence  of  im- 
measurable love  are  not  to  be  classed  as  criminal.  **  It 
may  be  objected,"  he  says  in  substance,  **  that  I  my- 
self have  in  the  play  called  the  lovers  scelerate.  Not 
so;  do  not  confound  me  with  the  persons  of  the  tra- 
gedy." 

In  his  second  lecture  Speroni  attempts  to  prove  that 
pity  falls  justly  in  every  case  upon  those  who  have  suf- 
fered for  love.  To  defend  this  position  he  resorts  to 
exactly  that  form  of  romantic  logic  which  we  observed 
in  Ford's  youthful  pamphlets  and  later  in  the  mouth  of 
Giovanni.  It  is  the  privilege  of  unfortunate  lovers  to 
be  pitied;  for  love  is  the  desire  of  beauty.  The  recog- 
nition of  beauty  is  the  function  of  man  which  distin- 
-  guishes  him  from  the  brute.  It  is  pecuhar  to  man  to 
.recognize  and  delight  in  beauty,  because  it  is  the  func- 
tion of  reason.  For  beauty  consists  in  proportion,  and 
agreement  and  order  of  the  parts;  but  where  these  ex- 
ist, there  are  also  prius  and  posterius  and  antecedens  and 
consequens  ;  and  these  things  can  be  recognized  only  by 
jthe  reason.  Therefore  man  alone  knows  beauty,  and 
exhibits  his  reason  by  delighting  in  it.  It  is,  in  short, 
,  the  privilege  of  unfortunate  lovers  to  be  pitied,  because 
they  have  come  to  grief  through  the  exercise  of  their 
highest  faculty.  To  make  the  contention  specific,  **the 
love  of  the  twins  of  the  tragedy  is  not  disonestOy^^  because 
the  **  love  of  country  and  of  glory  is  not  so  peculiar  to 


3fintroDuction  liii 

a  human  being  as  that  love  which  is  desire  of  beauty. 
Therefore,  sin  caused  by  this  latter  is  more  human,  be- 
cause this  species  is  found  only  in  man  ;  but  the  other 
two  are  found  also  in  other  animals." 

I  have  dwelt  at  considerable  length  upon  the  tragedy 
and  the  criticism  of  the  *'  Plato  "  of  the  Paduart  acad- 
emy because  in  this  forgotten  Italian  material  are  to  be 
found  the  full  illustration  and  the  explicit  theory  of 
every  singular  characteristic  in  Ford's  most  individual 
play.  Here  is  the  Platonic  theology  of  love  —  its  logic, 
its  insistence  upon  the  inviolability  of  the  soul,  its  mystical 
reverence  of  passion,  and  its  earnest  fatalism  —  seriously 
applied  to  the  extenuation  of  hideous  crime  and  to  the 
glorification  of  the  criminals.  \i^  Cntiace  e  Mac  area  was 
not  the  direct  source  of  '  Tis  Pity,  it  was  at  any  rate  a 
noteworthy  tributary  to  that  stream  of  bewildering  and 
dangerous  neo-pagan  ideas  which  flowed  into  England 
from  Italy,  and  made  the  production  of  '  Tis  Pity  pos- 
sible. The  decadent  and  vicious  idealism  of  both  of 
these  tragedies  —  this  is  perhaps  sufficient  justification 
for  considering  them  attentively  —  is  the  fruit  of  the 
general  moral  and  intellectual  emancipation  of  the  Re- 
naissance. 

From  this  survey  of  Ford's  work  it  should  appear 
plainly  enough  that  he  was  not  one  of  the  myriad- 
minded  and  puissant  men  of  the  age,  to  whom  nothing 
human  was  alien.  It  seems  as  if  temperament,  culture, 
and  the  time-spirit  had  conspired  to  make  him  a  writer 
of  originality  and  power  only  within  extremely  narrow 
limits.  I  have  said  that  his  reputation  rests  upon  his 
three  tragedies,    and  one  of  them.    Lovers   Sacrifice, 


liv  31ntroliuction 

is  a  failure.  It  would  scarcely  be  going  too  far  to  say 
that  no  contributive  tendency  and  no  excellence  of  ar- 
tistic achievement  peculiarly  his  would  be  ignored  if  he 
were  remembered  only  by  the  two  plays  included  in 
this  volume.  Here  are  his  best  plots;  all  but  one  — 
Bianca  —  of  his  memorable  characters;  his  sweetest 
poetry;  his  fundamental  and  creative  ideas.  His  amor- 
ous and  melancholic  temperament  tended  to  restrict  his 
outlook,  even  from  youth,  to  the  field  of  love  and 
sexual  passion.  His  reading  in  the  romantic  literature 
of  the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century  confirmed 
his  natural  bent,  and  added  to  his  emotions  whatever  in- 
tellectual content  was  possessed  by  the  Platonic  theology 
of  love.  If  his  legal  training  affected  his  literary  pro- 
cesses, I  suspect  we  may  discover  traces  of  its  influence 
in  the  procHvity  of  his  characters  for  deciding  cases  of 
conscience  on  grounds  of  equity  and  natural  reason.  As 
a  lawyer  he  may  easily  have  learned  a  certain  disrespect 
-for  the  law  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  body  of  rules  based  upon 
♦social  expediency  rather  than  upon  absolute  justice. 
^"^Furthermore,  he  found  a  curious  corroboration  of  the 
V^scholastic  fatalism  and  rationalism  of  his  youth  in  the 
'  medical  rationalism  of  Burton.  All  these  forces,  bearing 
upon  a  mind  as  earnest  and  as  humorless  as  Shelley's, 
produced  in  Ford  a  disdain  for  vulgar  orthodoxy, 
and  made  him  a  romantic  rationalist  in  morals.  After 
a  generation  of  great  dramatists  had  spoken,  he  had 
still  something  to  say.  He  had  to  say  that  the  essence 
of  tragedy  is  the  defeat  of  the  ideal  by  the  real  world. 
In  order  to  explain  the  idea  dramatically  he  had  to  in- 
vent the  problem  play.    If  he  could  have  supported  his 


^' 


31utroDuctton  Iv 


theory  of  tragedy  by  a  series  of  such  fine  and  effective 
illustrations  as  the  Broken  Hearty  he  would  have  made 
himself  a  large  and  secure  place  in  literature.  Unfortu- 
nately, however,  his  experience,  judgment,  and  com- 
mon sense  were  unequal  to  the  task.  His  talent  was 
limited  by  a  morbid  temperament.  His  intellectual 
grasp  was  weak  when  he  wrote  Love* s  Sacrifice. 
When  he  wrote  '  Tis  Pity,  though  every  artistic  faculty 
was  alert,  he  was  deserted  by  common-sense. 


THE  TEXT 

The  text  here  printed  follows  the  first  and  only  seventeenth-cen- 
tury edition,  the  quarto  of  1633.  Dyce  discovered  two  or  three 
minute  differences  in  the  copies  he  examined ;  but  there  seems  to 
have  been  no  second  quarto  edition  of  any  play  produced  by  Ford 
independently.  The  quarto  has  been  compared  with  Weber's  edi- 
tion in  the  Dramatic  Works  of  John  ForJ^  181 1,  and  with  the 
.  Gifford-Dyce  edition  in  the  Works  of  John  Ford,  1895.  Weber's 
notoriously  defective  edition  was  a  lively  provocative  to  accuracy  in 
Giff'ord's  edition  of  1827.  But  though  Gifford  decisively  superseded 
Weber,  his  own  editorial  work  was  by  no  means  flawless,  and  he 
permitted  himself  editorial  licenses  no  longer  approved.  For  the 
revised  edition  of  1869  Dyce  thoroughly  overhauled  Giffbrd's  text, 
comparing  it  with  various  copies  of  the  quartos,  and  restoring  original 
readings  or  noting  them  among  the  variants.  The  1895  edition  is 
a  re-issue  "  with  further  additions  "  [by  A.  H.  Bullen].  There 
still  remain  some  needless  corrections,  numerous  expansions  of  col- 
loquial contractions,  and  changes  in  the  stage  directions.  In  the 
present  editions  variants  of  Gifford-Dyce  (G-D)  are  recorded  when 
they  are  of  interest  or  importance  to  the  text. 

The  spelling  of  the  quarto  has  been  restored,  except  that  the  old 
forms  of  /,  5,  and  "v  have  not  been  retained,  and  obvious  misprints 
—  such  as  an  n  for  a  u  —  have  been  silently  corrected.  Capitaliza- 
tion and  punctuation  have  been  modernized,  and  commas  have  been 
substituted  for  the  characteristic  parentheses  enclosing  the  nomina- 
tive of  direct  address.  Changes  or  additions  in  the  text  are  indicated 
by  brackets  or  foot-notes  or  both.  The  name  of  each  character  is 
printed  in  tull  at  his  first  appearance  in  each  scene,  and  then  is 
uniformly  abbreviated  without  reference  to  sporadic  variations.  The 
division  and  placing  of  the  scenes  is  based  on  that  of  the  Gifford- 
Dyce  edition. 


TIS 

Pitty  Shee  $  a  W  hore 


Aded  by  the  Queeves  Maieflfes  Ser- 
uajits^  at  ^he  Thanix  in 


L  0  3^T)  0  tNi. 

Pr/ntcd  hy^J^QcholasOkes  ior%chcLti 

Collim,  and  are  to  be  fold  at  his  ftop 
in  PauJs  Church-yard,  atthc  (Tgne 
ofthethTceKinsJ*  1633. 


SOURCES 

No  perfectly  certain  source  of  this  play  has  been  discovered. 
Events  in  some  respects  similar  to  those  of  the  tragedy  are  said  to 
have  taken  place  in  Normandy  in  1603.  An  account  of  them  is 
given  by  the  chronicler  Pierre  Matthieu  in  his  Histoire  de  France 
et  del  Chosis  MemorahUs  .  .  .  ,  published  in  Paris,  1606.  The 
story  is  retold  by  Francois  de  Rosset  in  Lis  Histoins  Tragiques  de 
Nostre  Terr.ps.  It  is  the  titth  rale  in  the  second  edition,  161 5  ;  the 
seventh  in  the  edition  of  16 19.  Wolrt"  declares  outright  that  Ford 
took  his  plot  trom  this  source.  (^See  y:^-r.  Fcrde  eir.  Njc/ij/smer 
S^uitspeare' s,  page  8).  But  Koeppel  approves  Dvce's  observation 
that  "  though  Ford  may  probably  have  read  it,  there  are  no  particu- 
lar resemblances  between  it  and  the  play."  (See  Koeppel's  ^uei.'er:- 
&udier.,   page   180  ;  also,   Gitiord-Dyce,  Introduction,  page  xxx.) 

A  great  part  of  the  Shakesperean  influence  which  Wolrf  at- 
tempted to  trace  in  this  play  is  purely  imaginary.  It  is  not  difficult, 
however,  to  see  a  cerrain  general  likeness  between  Fri.ir  Bonavcn- 
tura  and  Friar  Laurence,  and  —  to  a  less  degree  —  between  other 
characters  of  T/V  Pity  and  Rcrr:eo  ar.d  yu'ii^:. 

As  a  possible  indirect  source  W.  Bang  and  H.  de  Vocht  sug- 
gest the  Ilepi  ipurriKQy  tt adt) ixcltwv  of  Parthenios  of  Nikaia.  See 
Engiisi^e  Siudier:,  Band  36,  pp.   392-93  (1906). 

There  is  a  striking  parallelism  —  hitherto,  I  think,  unnoticed  — 
between  Annabella,  Donado,  Bergetto,  and  Poggio;  and  Isabella, 
Guardiano,  the  Ward,  and  Sordido  in  Middleton's  ff^omer,  Bczvare 
TVomer..  The  resemblance  is  the  more  worth  noting  as  the  same 
element  of  unnatural  passion  enters  into  the  intrigue  oi  both  play$. 

In  mv  introduction  I  have  discussed  at  some  length  an  impres- 
sive analogue  and  possible  source  ot'Tis  Pity  in  Speroni's  dnace 
e  Mac  area. 


TO  THE   TRUELY    NOBLE, 
JOHN 

EARLE    OF    PETERBOROUGH,    LORD 

MORDANT, 

BARON   OF  TURVEY 

My  Lord, 

Where  a  truth  of  meritt  hath  a  generall  warrant, 
there  love  is  but  a  debt,  acknowledgement  a  justice. 
Greatnesse  cannot  often  claime  virtue  by  inheritance  ; 
yet  in  this,  yours  appeares  most  eminent,  for  that  you  are 
not  more  rightly  heyre  to  your  fortunes,  then  glory  shalbe 
to  your  memory.  Sweetenesse  of  disposition  ennobles  a 
freedome  of  birth  ;  in  both,  your  lawfull  interest  adds 
honour  to  your  owne  name,  and  mercy  to  my  presump- 
tion. Your  noble  allowance  of  these  first  fruites  of  my 
leasure  in  the  action,  emboldens  my  confidence  of  your 
as  noble  construction  in  this  presentment  :  especially  since 
my  service  must  ever  owe  particular  duty  to  your  fa- 
vours, by  a  particular  ingagement.  The  gravity  of  the  sub- 
ject may  easily  excuse  the  leightnesse  of  the  title  :  other- 
wise, I  had  beene  a  severe  judge  against  mine  owne  guilt. 
Princes  have  vouchsaf't  grace  to  trifles,  offred  from  a 
purity  of  devotion  ;  your  Lordship  may  likewise  please  to 
admit  into  your  good  opinion,  with  these  weake  endeav- 
ours, the  constancy  of  affection  from  the  sincere  lover  of 
your  deserts  in  honour. 

JOHN  FORD. 


The  Sceane. 
PARMA 

THE    ACTORS'    NAMES. 

BoNAVENTURA,  &  fryar. 
A  Cardinall,  nuntio  to  the  Pope. 
SoRANZo,  a  nobleman. 
Florio,  a  cittizen  of  Parma, 
DoNADO,  another  cittizen. 
Grimaldi,  a  Roman  gentleman. 
Giovanni,  sonne  to  Florio. 
Bergetto,  nephew  to  Donado. 
RicHARDETTO,  a  suppos'd  phisitian. 
Vasques,  servant  to  Soranzo. 
PoGGio,  servant  to  Bergetto. 
Bandetti. 

Woemen 
Annabella,  daughter  to  Florio. 
HippoLiTA,  wife  to  Richardetto. 
Philotis,  his  neece. 
PuTANA,  tutresse  to  Annabella. 
[Officers,  Attendants,  Servants,  &c.] 

Tie  Sceane.   In  the  quarto  this  page  immediately  follows  the  title- 
page. 


'€t!S  pittv  ^W^  a  ^l^oore 


[ACTUS    PRIMUS.     SCENA    PRIMA. 

Friar  Bonaventuras  cell.~^ 

Enter  Fryar  arid  Giovanni. 
Fryar.   Dispute  no   more   In  this ;   for  know, 

young  man, 
These  are  no  schoole-points ;  nice  philosophy 
May  tolerate  unlikely  arguments. 
But  heaven  admits  no  jest;  wits  that  presum'd 
On  wit  too  much,  —  by  striving  how  to  prove       5 
There  was  no  God,  —  with  foolish  grounds  of 

art 
Discover'd  first  the  neerest  way  to  hell. 
And  fild  the  world  with  develish  atheisme : 
Such  questions,  youth,  are  fond ;  for  better  'tis 
To  blesse  the  sunne  then  reason  why  it  shines ;   lo 
Yet  hee  thou  talk'st  of  is  above  the  sun. 
No  more;  I  may  not  heare  it. 

Giovanni.  Gentle  father. 

To  you  I  have  unclasp't  my  burthened  soule, 
Empty'd  the  store-house  of  my   thoughts  and 

heart, 

Sfor,  G-D,  far. 


6  '®i0^0tt^  fAcTl. 

Made  my  selfe  poore  of  secrets ;  have  not  left      i^ 
Another  word  untold,  which  hath  not  spoke 
All  what  I  ever  durst  or  thinke  or  know ; 
And  yet  is  here  the  comfort  I  shall  have, 
Must  I  not  doe  what  all  men  else  may,  — love? 

Fry,  Yes,  you  may  love,  faire  sonne. 

Gio.  Must  I  not  praise  ao 

That  beauty  which,  if  fram*d  a  new,  the  gods 
Would  make  a  god  of,  if  they  had  it  there, 
And  kneele  to  it,  as  I  doe  kneele  to  them? 

Fry.  Why,  foolish  madman, — 

Gio.  Shall  a  peevish  sound, 

A  customary  forme,  from  man  to  man,  25 

Of  brother  and  of  sister,  be  a  barre 
Twixt  my  perpetuall  happinesse  and  mee  ? 
Say  that  we  had  one  father,  say  one  wombe  — 
Curse  to  my  joyes  — gave  both  us  life  and  birth  ; 
Are  wee  not  therefore  each  to  other  bound  30 

So  much  the  more  by  nature,  by  the  links 
Of  blood,  of  reason,  —  nay,  if  you  will  hav't, — 
Even  of  religion,  to  be  ever  one. 
One  soule,  one  flesh,  one  love,  one  heart,  one 
all? 

Fry.   Have  done,  unhappy  youth,  for  thou  art 
lost.  35 

Gio.  Shall,  then,  for  that  I  am   her  brother 
borne, 
My  joyes  be  ever  banisht  from  her  bed  ? 


Scene  I.]  '^isi  ^it^  7 

No,  father ;  in  your  eyes  I  see  the  change 

Of  pitty  and  compassion ;  from  your  age, 

As  from  a  sacred  oracle,  distills  40 

The  life  of  counsell :  tell  mee,  holy  man, 

What  cure  shall  give  me  ease  in  these  extreames. 

Fry.  Repentance,  sonne,  and  sorrow  for  this 
sinne  : 
For  thou  hast  mov'd  a  Majesty  above 
With  thy  un-raunged  almost  blasphemy.  45 

Gio.  O,  doe  not  speake  of  that,  deare  con- 
fessor ! 

Fry.  Art  thou,  my  sonne,  that  miracle  of  wit 
Who  once,  within  these  three  moneths,  wert 

esteem'd 
A  wonder  of  thine  age  throughout  Bononia  ? 
How  did  the  University  applaud  50 

Thy  goverment,  behaviour,  learning,  speech, 
Sweetnesse,  and  all  that  could  make  up  a  man ! 
I  was  proud  of  my  tutellage,  and  chose 
Rather  to  leave  my  bookes  then  part  with  thee; 
I  did  so  :  but  the  fruites  of  all  my  hopes  55 

Are  lost  in  thee,  as  thou  art  in  thy  selfe. 
O,  Giovanni  1  hast  thou  left  the  schooles 
Of  knowledge  to  converse  with  lust  and  death? 
For  death  waites  on   thy  lust.  Looke  through 

the  world. 
And  thou  shalt  see  a  thousand  faces  shine  60 

More  glorious  then  this  idoll  thou  ador'st  : 


8  '®i0pit^  [Act  I. 

Leave  her,  and  take  thy  choyce,  *tls  much  lesse 

sinne  ; 
Though  in  such  games  as  those,  they  lose  that 

winne. 
Gio.   It  were  more  ease  to  stop  the  ocean 
From   floates   and   ebbs    then    to   disswade    my 

vowes.  65 

Fry.  Then  I   have  done,   and   in  thy  wilful! 

flames 
Already  see  thy  ruine ;  heaven  is  just, 
Yet  heare  my  counsell. 

Gio.  As  a  voyce  of  life. 

Fry.   Hye  to  thy  fathers  house,  there  locke 

thee  fast 
Alone  within  thy  chamber,  then  fall  downe  70 

On  both  thy  knees,  and  grovell  on  the  ground  : 
Cry  to  thy  heart,  wash  every  word  thou  utter'st 
In  teares, — and  if't  bee  possible,  —  of  blood  : 
Begge  heaven  to  cleanse  the  leprosie  of  lust 
That  rots  thy  soule,  acknowledge  what  thou  art,  75 
A wretch,a worme,  a  nothing:  weepe,  sigh,  pray 
Three  times  a  day  and  three  times  every  night : 
For   seven   dayes   space   doe  this  ;  then  if  thou 

iind'st 
No  change  in  thy  desires,  returne  to  me  : 
rie  thinke  on  remedy.   Pray  for  thy  selfe  80 

At  home,  whil'st  I  pray  for  thee  here.  Away  ! 
My  blessing  with  thee.   Wee  have  neede  to  pray  ! 


Scene  II.]  *^i&  pft^  9 

Gio.  All  this  rie  doe,  to  free  mee  from  the  rod 
Of  vengeance  ;  else  I'lesweare  my  fate's  my  god. 

Exeunt, 

[SCENA    SECUNDA. 
The  street  before  Florws  house.l 

Enter  Grimaldi  and  Vasques  ready  to  fight. 

Vasques.  Come,  sir,  stand  to  your  tackling  ;  if 
you  prove  craven.  Tie  make  you  run  quickly. 

Grimaldi.   Thou  art  no  equall  match  for  mee. 

Vas.  Indeed,  I  never  went  to  the  warres  to 
bring  home  newes  ;  nor  cannot  play  the  moun-  5 
tibanke  for  a  meales  meate,  and  sweare  I  got  my 
wounds  in  the  field.  See  you  these  gray  haires  ? 
They'le  not  flinch  for  a  bloody  nose.  Wilt  thou 
to  this  geere  ? 

Gri.   Why,  slave,  think'st  thou   I'le  ballance   10 
my  reputation  with  a  cast-suite  .'*   Call  thy  mais- 
ter ;  he  shall  know  that  I  dare  — 

Vas.  Scold   like  a  cot-queane,  —  that's  your 
profession.   Thou  poore  shaddow  of  a  souldier, 
I  will  make  thee  know  my  maister  keepes   ser-  15 
vants  thy  betters  in   quality   and    performance. 
Com'st  thou  to  fight  or  prate  ? 

Gri.  Neither,  with  thee ;  I  am  a  Romane 
and  a  gentleman,  one  that  have  got  mine  honour 
with  expence  of  blood.  ao 

Vas.  You  are  a  lying  coward  and   a  foole! 

18—20  Neither  ,  ,  .  blood.    ^  prints  as  verse. 


IG  'tl^i&^it^  [Act  I. 

Fight,  or,  by  these  hilts,  I'le  kill  thee, — brave 
my  lord  !  —  you'le  fight. 

Gri.  Provoake  me  not,  for  If  thou  dost  — 
f^as.  Have  at  you  ! 

Tbey  fight ;  Grim  a  I,  hath  the  worst. 
Enter  Florioy  Donado,  Soranxo. 
Florio.  What  meaned  these  sudden  broyles  so 
neare  my  dores  ? 
Have  you  not  other  places  but  my  house 
To  vent  the  spleene  of  your  disordered  bloods  ? 
Must  I  be  haunted  still  with  such;unrest 
As  not  to  eate  or  sleepe  in  peace  at  home  ? 
Is  this  your  love,  Grimaldi  ?   Fie,  't  is  naught. 
Donado.  And,  Vasques,  I   may  tell  thee,  'tis 
not  well 
To  broach  these  quarrels;  you   are   ever  for- 
ward 
In  seconding  contentions. 

Enter  above  Annabella  and  Putana. 
Flo.  What's  the  ground  ? 

Soranxo.  That,  with  your  patience,  signiors, 
I'le  resolve  : 
This  gentleman,  whom  fame   reports  a    soul- 

dier, — 
For  else  I  know  not,  —  rivals  mee  in  love 
To  Signior  Florio's  daughter;  to  whose  eares 
He  still  preferrs  his  suite  to  my  disgrace, 

25  mtantd.   G-D,  mean. 


scENt  II.]  'tETig  pit^  1 1 

Thinking  the  way  to  recommend  himselfe 

Is  to  disparage  me  in  his  report :  40 

But  know,  Grimaldi,  though,  may  be,  thou  art 

My  equall  in  thy  blood,  yet  this  bewrayes 

A  lownesse  in  thy  mindej  which,  wer't  thou 

noble, 
Thou  would'st  as  much  disdaine  as  I  doe  thee 
For  this  unworthinesse  ;  and  on  this  ground         45 
I  will'd  my  servant  to  correct  his  tongue. 
Holding  a  man  so  base  no  match  for  me. 

Fas.  And  had  [not]  your  sudd[en]  comming 
prevented  us,  I  had  let  my  gentleman  blood  un- 
der the  gilles ;  I  should  have  worm'd  you,  sir,  for  50 
running  madde. 

Gri.   He  be  reveng'd,  Soranzo. 

Vas.  On  a  dish  of  warme-broth  to  stay  your 
stomack  —  doe,  honest  innocence,  doe!  Spone- 
meat  is  a  wholesomer  dyet  then  a  Spannish  blade.  55 

Gri.  Remember  this ! 

Sor,  I  feare  thee  not,  Grimaldi. 

Ex,  Gri. 

Flo.  My  Lord  Soranzo,  this  is  strange  to  me, 
Why  you   should  storme,  having  my  word  en- 

Owing  her  heart,  what  neede  you  doubt   her 

eare  ? 
Loosers  may  talke  by  law  of  any  game.  60 

46  his.  Q,  this.  48  sudden.   Q,  sudda  ne. 


12  '®i0|Bit^  [Act  I. 

Vas.  Yet  thevillaine  of  words,  Signior  Florio, 
maybe  such  as  would  make  any  unspleen'd  dove 
chollerick;  blame  not  my  lord  in  this. 

Flo.   Be  you  more  silent ; 
I  would  not  for  my  wealth,  my  daughters  love    65 
Should  cause  the  spilling  of  one  drop  of  blood. 
Vasques,  put  up ;  let's  end  this  fray  in  wine. 

Exeunt. 

Putana.   How  like   you    this,   child  ?    Here's 
threatning,  challenging,  quarrelling,  and  fighting 
on  every  side,  and  all  is  for  your  sake;  you  had  70 
neede  looke  to  your  selfe,  chardge ;  you'le  be 
stolne  away  sleeping  else  shortly. 

Annahella.   But,  tutresse,  such  a  life  gives  no 
content 
To  me;  my  thoughts  are  fixt  on  other  ends. 
Would  you  would  leave  me!  75 

Put.  Leave  you?  No  marvaile  else;  leave  me 
no  leaving,  chardge.  This  is  love  outright.  In- 
deede,  I  blame  you  not ;  you  have  choyce  fit  for 
the  best  lady  in  Italy. 

Anna.   Pray  doe  not  talke  so  much.  80 

Put.  Take  the  worst  with  the  best,  there's  Gri- 
maldi  the  souldier,  a  very  well-timbred  fellow; 
they  say  he  is  a  Roman,  nephew  to  the  Duke 
Mount  Ferratto ;  they  say  he  did  good  service  in 
the  warrs  against  the  Millanoys ;  but,  faith,  85 
chardge,  I  doe  not  like  him,  and  be  for  nothing 

61-3  Q  prints  as  verse. 


Scene  II.]  '([1^10  plt^  1 3 

but  for  being  a  souldier:  one  amongst  twenty 
of  your  skirmishing  captaines  but  have  some 
pryvie  mayme  or  other  that  marres  their  stand- 
ing upright.  I  h'ke  him  the  worse,  hee  crinckles  90 
so  much  in  the  hams;  though  hee  might  serve 
if  their  were  no  more  men, —  yet  hee's  not  the 
man  I  would  choose. 

Anna.   Fye,  how  thou  prat*st ! 

Put.   As  I  am  a  very  woman,  I   like  Signiour  95 
Soranzo  well :   hee  is  wise,  and   what   is   more, 
rich ;   and   what   Is   more  then   that,  kind ;   and 
what  is  more  then  all  this,  a  noble-man;  such  a 
one,  were    I    the    faire   Annabella    my  selfe,  I 
would  wish  and   pray  for.    Then   hee  is  bounti-ioo 
full;  besides,  hee  is  handsome, and,  by  my  troth, 
I    thinke,  wholsome  —  and   that's    newes    in  a 
gallant  of  three  and  twenty ;  liberall,  that  I  know ; 
loving,  that  you  know ;  and  a  man  sure,  else  hee 
could  never  ha'  purchast  such  a  good  name  with  105 
Hippolita,  the  lustie  widdow,  in   her  husbands 
life  time.    And  'twere  but  for  that  report,  sweet 
heart,  would   'a  were  thine  I    Commend  a  man 
for  his  qualities,  but  take  a  husband  as   he  is  a 
plaine-sufficient,  naked   man:   such  a  one  is   for  no 
your  bed,  and  such  a  one  is  Signior  Soranzo,  my 
life  for't. 

Anna.  Sure  the  woman  tooke  her  mornings 
draught  to  soone. 


14  'tlTi^Pit^  [Act  I. 

Enter  Bergetto  and  Poggio. 

Put.   But  looke,  sweet  heart,  looke  what  thinge  1 1 5 
comes  now  !    Here's  another  of  your  cyphers  to 
fill    up  the  number:    Oh,  brave  old    ape  in   a 
silken  coate  !   Observe. 

Ber.  Dids't  thou  thinke,  Poggio,  that  I  would 
spoyle  my  new  cloathes,  and  leave  my  dinner  to  no 
fight? 

Pog.  No,  sir,  I  did  not  take  you  for  so  arrant 
a  babie. 

Ber.  I  am  wyser  then  so :   for  I  hope,  Poggio, 
thou  never  heard'st  of  an  elder  brother  that  was  125 
a  coxcomb;  dids't,  Poggio? 

Pog.  Never,  indeede,  sir,  as  long  as  they  had 
either  land  or  mony  left  them  to  inherit. 

Ber.  Is  it  possible,  Poggio  ?  Oh,  monstruous ! 
Why,  He  undertake  with  a  handfull  of  silver  to  130 
buy  a  headfull  of  wit  at  any  tyme :  but,  sirrah, 
I  have  another  purchase  in  hand.  I  shall  have 
the  wench,  myne  unckle  sayes.  I  will  but  wash 
my  face,  and  shift  socks,  and  then  have  at  her, 
yfaith  .   .    .  Marke  my  pace,  Poggio  !  135 

Pog.  Sir,  I  have  scene  an  asse  and  a  mule  trot 
the  Spannish  pavin  with  a  better  grace,  I  know 
not  how  often.  Exeunt. 

Anna.   This  ideot  haunts  me  too. 

Put.   I,  I,  he  needes  no  discription.   The  rich  140 
magnifico  that  is  below  with  your  father,  chardge, 


Scene  II.]  '^10  JDlt^  1$ 

Signior  Donado  his  unckle,  for  that  he  meanes 
to  make  this,  his  cozen,  a  golden  calfe,  thinkes 
that  you  wil  be  a  right  Isralite,  and  fall  downe 
to  him  presently  :  but  I  hope  I  have  tuterd  you  145 
better.  They  say  a  fooles  bable  is  a  ladies  play- 
fellow; yet  you,  having  wealth  enough,  you 
neede  not  cast  upon  the  dearth  of  flesh  at  any 
rate.   Hang  him,  innocent ! 

Enter  Giovanni. 

Anna.   But  see,  Putana,  see !    What  blessed 
shape  150 

Of  some  caelestiall  creature  now  appeares ! 
What  man  is  hee  that  with  such  sad  aspect 
Walkes  carelesse  of  him  selfe  ? 

Put,  Where  ? 

Anna.  Looke  below. 

Put.  Oh,  'tis  your  brother,  sweet. 

Anna.  Ha ! 

Put.  *Tis  your  brother. 

Anna.  Sure  'tis  not  hee ;  this  is  some  woefull 
thinge  155 

Wrapt  up  in  griefe,  some  shaddow  of  a  man. 
Alas,  hee  beats  his  brest,  and  wipes  his  eyes, 
Drown'd  all  in  teares :  me  thinkes  I  heare  him  sigh. 
Lets  downe,  Putana,  and  pertake  the  cause. 
I  know  my  brother  in  the  love  he  beares  me       160 
Will  not  denye  me  partage  in  his  sadnesse  — 
My  soule  is  full  of  heavinesse  and  feare. 

Extt  \_above  with  Putana^ , 


l6  '®i0pit^  [Act  I. 

[SCENA  TERTIA. 

A  hall  in  Florw  s  house,'\ 

Giovanni.  Lost !    I  am  lost !   my  fates  have 
doom'd  my  death: 
The  more  I  strive,  I  love;  the  more  I  love, 
The  lesse  I  hope :   I  see  my  ruine  certaine. 
What  judgement  or  endevors  could  apply 
To  my  incurable  and  restlesse  wounds,  5 

I  throughly  have  examin'd,  but  in  vaine. 

0  that  it  were  not  in  religion  sinne 

To  make  our  love  a  god,  and  worship  it! 

1  have  even  wearied  heaven  with  prayers,  dryed 

up 
The  spring  of  my  continuall  teares,  even  sterv'd  10 
My  veines  with  dayly  fasts :   what  wit  or  art 
Could  counsaile,  I  have  practiz'd;  but,  alas, 
I    find    all  these   but  dreames   and    old    mens 

tales 
To  fright  unsteedy  youth;  Fme  still  the  same: 
Or  I  must  speake  or  burst;    tis  not,  I  know,        15 
My  lust,  but  'tis  my  fate  that  leads  me  on. 
Keepe  feare  and  low  faint  hearted  shame  with 

slaves ! 
rie  tell  her  that  I  love  her,  though  my  heart 
Were  rated  at  the  price  of  that  attempt. 
Oh  me!  she  comes. 


Scene  II.]  '®tlfif  pit^  1 7 

Enter  Anna,  and  Put  an  a. 

Annahella.  Brother ! 

Gio.    \aside\.  If  such  a  thing  20 

As  courage  dwell  in  men,  yee  heavenly  powers, 
Now  double  all  that  virtue  in  my  tongue ! 

Anna.   Why,  brother, 
Will  you  not  speake  to  me? 

Gio.  Yes:  how  d'ee,  sister? 

Anna.   Howsoever  I  am,  me  thinks  you  are 

not  well.  25 

Putana.   Blesse  us !   why  are  you  so  sad,  sir  ? 

Gio.  Let  me   intreat   you,  leave   us   awhile, 
Putana. 

Sister,  I  would  be  pryvate  with  you. 

Anna.   With-drawe,  Putana. 

Put.   I   will.  —   \_Aside.~\    If  this    were    any   30 
other  company  for  her,  I  should  thinke  my  ab- 
sence an  office  of  some  credit  ;  but  I  will  leave 
them  together.  Exit  Putana. 

Gio.   Come,  sister,  lend  your  hand  :  let's  walke 
together. 
I   hope  you  neede  not  blush  to  walke  with  mee;  35 
Here's  none  but  you  and  I. 

Anna,  How's  this  ? 

Gio,  Faith, 

I  meane  no  harme. 

Anna.  Harme  ? 

Gio.  No,  good  faith. 

How  is't  with  'ee? 


1 8  '®i0pit^  [Act  I. 

Anna.  I  trust  hee  be  not  franticke  — 

I  am  very  well,  brother. 

Gio.  Trust  me,  but  I  am  sicke :   I  feare  so 
sick  ^o 

'Twill  cost  my  life. 

Anna.   Mercy  forbid  itj  'tis  not  so,  I  hope. 

Gio.   I  thinke  you  love  me,  sister. 

Anna.  Yes,  you  know 

I  doe. 

Gio.         I  know't,  indeed  —  y'are  very  faire. 

Anna.   Nay,  then,  I   see   you   have   a  merry 

sicknesse.  .. 

Gio.  That's  as  it  proves  :  the  poets  faigne,  I 
read, 
That  Juno  for  her  forehead  did  exceede 
All  other  goddesses ;  but  I  durst  sweare 
Your  forehead  exceeds  hers,  as  hers  did  theirs. 

Anna.  Troth,  this  Is  pretty  ! 

Gio.  Such  a  paire  of  starres  50 

As  are  thine  eyes  would,  like  Promethean  fire. 
If  gently  glaun'st,  give  life  to  senselesse  stones. 

Anna.   Fie  upon  'ee  ! 

Gio.  The    lilly  and    the    rose,   most    sweetly 
strainge. 
Upon    your    dimpled    cheekes    doe    strive    for 

change.  55 

44  /  doe.      Q  prints  with  line  above. 

46  the.   Q,  they.  49  thein.   G,  theirs.      D,  their. 


Scene  III.]  'tE^lg  ^{t^  1 9 

Such  lippes  would  tempt  a  saint  ;  such  hands  as 

those 
Would  make  an  anchoret  lascivious. 

Anna.   D'ee  mock  mee  or  flatter  mee  ? 

Gio.   If  you  would  see  a  beauty  more  exact 
Then  art  can  counter^t  or  nature  frame,  60 

Looke   in    your  glasse,  and  there    behold  your 
owne. 

Anna.   O,  you  are  a  trime  youth. 

Gio.    Here  !  Offers  his  dagger  to  her, 

Anna.  What  to  doe  ? 

Gio.         And  here's  my  breast ;  strike  home  ! 
Rip  up  my  bosome  ;  there  thou  shalt  behold 
A  heart  in  which  is  writ  the  truth  I  speake.         65 
Why  stand  'ee? 

Anna.  Are  you  earnest  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  most  earnest. 

You  cannot  love? 

Anna,  Whom? 

Gio,  Me  I   My  tortured  soule 

Hath  felt  affliction  In  the  heate  of  death  — 
O  Annabella,  I  am  quite  undone  ! 
The  love  of  thee,  my  sister,  and  the  view  7© 

Of  thy  immortall  beauty  hath  untun'd 
All  harmony  both  of  my  rest  and  life. 
Why  d'ee  not  strike? 

63   itrlke.     Q,  strick. 


20  'ari0|Dit^  [Act  I. 

Jnna.  Forbid  it,  my  just  feares  ! 

If  this  be  true,  'twere  fitter  I  were  dead. 

Gio.  True,  Annabella;  'tis  no  time  to  jest.       75 
I  have  too  long  supprest  the  hidden  flames 
That  ahnost  have  consum'd  me :  I  have  spent 
Many  a  silent  night  in  sighes  and  groanes. 
Ran  over  all  my  thoughts,  despis'd  my  fate, 
Reason'd  against  the  reasons  of  my  love,  80 

Done  all    that    smooth'd-cheeke   vertue    could 

advise ; 
But  found  all  bootelesse :  'tis  my  destiny 
That  you  must  eyther  love,  or  I  must  dye. 

Anna.   Comes  this  in  sadnesse  from  you  ? 

Gio.  Let  some  mischiefe 

Befall  me  soone,  if  I  dissemble  ought.  gj 

Anna.  You  are  my  brother,  Giovanni. 

Gio.  You, 

My  sister  Annabella;  I  know  this. 
And  could  afford  you  instance  why  to  love 
So  much  the  more  for  this;  to  which  intent 
Wise  nature  first  in  your  creation  ment  90 

To  make  you  mine ;  else't  had  beene  sinne  and 

fo  ule 
To  share  one  beauty  to  a  double  soule. 
Neerenesse  in  birth  or  blood  doth  but  perswade 
A  neerer  neerenesse  in  affection. 
I  have  askt  counsell  of  the  holy  church,  95 

81   imootJi" d-chceke.   Altered  by  G  to  smooth-chcek'd. 
93   or.    G-D,  and. 


SctNE  TIT.l  '^10  |iit^  21 

Who  tells  mee  I  may  love  you  ;  and  'tis  just 
That,   since  I    may,   I    should;   and   will,   yes, 

will ! 
Must  I  now  live  or  dye  ? 

Anna.  Live;  thou  hast  wonne 

The  field,  and  never  fought ;   what  thou   hast 

urg'd 
My  captive  heart  had  long  agoe  resolv'd.  loo 

I  blush  to  tell  thee,  —  but  I'le  tell  thee  now, — 
For  every  sigh  that  thou  hast  spent  for  me 
I  have  sigh'd  ten ;   for  every  teare  shed  twenty  : 
And  not  so  much  for  that  I  lov'd,  as  that 
I  durst  not  say  I  lov'd,  nor  scarcely  thinlce  it.      105 

Gio.   Let  not  this  musicke  be  a  dreame,  yee 
gods. 
For  pittie's-sake,  I  begge  'ee. 

Anna.  On  my  knees,    ^^ee  kneeles. 

Brother,  even  by  our   mothers  dust,  I  charge 

you, 
Doe  not  betray  mee  to  your  mirth  or  hate : 
Love  mee  or  kill  me,  brother. 

Gio.  On  my  knees.     He  kneeles.  no 

Sister,  even  by  my  mothers  dust,  I  charge  you, 
Doe  not  betray  mee  to  your  mirth  or  hate : 
Love  mee  or  kill  mee,  sister. 

Anna.  You  meane  good  sooth,  then  ? 

Gio.  In  good  troth,  I  doe  ; 

And  so  doe  you,  1  hope:  say,  I'm  in  earnest.      115 


22  '^i&^it^  [Act  I. 

Jnna.  Pie  swear't,  and  I. 
Gio.  And  I ;  and  by  this  kisse,  — 

Kisses  her. 
Once  more !  yet  once  more  !  now  let's  rise,  • — 

by  this, 
I  would  not  change  this  minute  for  Elyzium. 
What  must  we  now  doe? 

Jnna.  What  you  will. 

Gio,  Come,  then; 

After  so  many  teares  as  wee  have  wept,  120 

Let's   learne   to  court  in  smiles,  to  kisse  and 
sleepe.  Exeutit. 

[SCENA    QUARTA.  J  street, 1 

Enter  Florio  and  Donado. 
Florio.    Signior     Donado,    you     have     sayd 
enough  — 
I  understand  you ;  but  would  have  you  know 
I  will  not  force  my  daughter  'gainst  her  will. 
You  see  I  have  but  two, a  sonne  and  her; 
And  hee  is  so  devoted  to  his  booke,  5 

As  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  doubt  his  health  : 
Should  he  miscarry,  all  my  hopes  rely 
Upon  my  girle.  As  for  worldly  fortune, 
I  am,  I  thanke  my  starres,  blest  with  enough. 
My  care  is  how  to  match  her  to  her  liking  :  10 

116  rU  iiuearUy  and  I.  G-D,  I'll  swear  it,  I. 


Scene  IV.)  '^ifif  pit^  23 

I  would  not  have  her  marry  wealth,  but  love ; 
And  if  she  like  your  nephew,  let  him  have  her. 
Here's  all  that  I  can  say. 

Donado.  Sir,  you  say  well. 

Like  a  true  father;  and,  for  my  part,  I, 
If  the  young  folkes  can  like, —  twixt  you  and 

me, —  15 

Will  promise  to  assure  my  nephew  presently 
Three  thousand  florrens  yeerely  during  life. 
And  after  I  am  dead  my  whole  estate. 

Flo,   'Tis  a  faire  proffer,  sir,  meane  time  your 

nephew 
Shall  have  free  passage  to  commence  his  suite:  20 
If  hee  can  thrive,  hee  shall  have  my  consent. 
So  for  this  time  Tie  leave  you,  signior.        Exit. 
Do.  Well, 

Here's   hope  yet,  if  my  nephew  would    have 

wit; 
But  hee  is  such  another  dunce,  I  feare 
Hee'le  never  winne  the  wench.    When  I  was 

young,  ^  ^3 

I  could  have  done*t,  yfaith ;  and  so  shall  hee. 
If  hee  will  learne  of  mee;  and,  in  good  time, 
Hee  comes  himselfe. 

Enter  Bergetto  and  Poggio. 
How  now,  Bergetto,  whether  away  so  fast  ? 

Bergetto.   Oh,  unkle,  I  have  heard  the  strangest  30 

29   How  now  .  .  .fait?  (^  gives  this  to  Poggio. 


24  'Win  pitV'  [Act  L 

newes  that  ever  came  out  of  the  mynt  I  Have  I 
not,  Poggio  ? 

Poggio.  Yes,  indeede,  sir. 

Do,  What  newes,  Bergetto  ? 

Ber.  Why,  looke  yee,  unkle,  my  barber  told  35 
me  just  now  that  there  is  a  fellow  come  to 
towne  who  undertakes  to  make  a  mill  goe  with- 
out the  mortall  helpe  of  any  water  or  winde, 
onely  with  sand-bags :  and  this  fellow  hath  a 
strange  horse,  a  most  excellent  beast,  I'le  assure  40 
you,  uncle,  my  barber  sayes,  whose  head  to  the 
wonder  of  all  Christian  people,  stands  just  be- 
hind where  his  tayle  is  —  is  't  not  true,  Poggio  ? 

Pog.  So  the  barber  swore,  forsooth. 

Do.  And  you  are  running  [t] hither?  45 

Ber.   I,  forsooth,  unkle. 

Do.  Wilt  thou  be  a  foole  stil  ?  Come,  sir, 
you  shall  not  goe.  You  have  more  mind  of  a 
puppet-play  then  on  the  businesse  I  told  y'ee. 
Why,  thou  great  baby,  wu't  never  have  wit  ?  50 
Wu't  make  thy  selfe  a  May-game  to  all  the 
world? 

Pag.  Answere  for  your  sclfe,  maister. 

Ber.   Why,  unkle,  shu'd   1   sit   at   home  still, 
and  not  goe  abroad  to  see  fashions  like  other  55 
gallants  ? 

Do.  To  see  hobby-horses !  What  wise  talke, 

45  [']  supplied  by  G-D. 


Scene  1V.|  '^10  |9itl?  25 

I  pray,  had  you  with  Annahclla,  when  you  were 
at  Signior  Florio's  house  ? 

/^er.   Oh,  the  wench  !    Uds   sa'    me,  unkle,  J   60 
tickled  her  with  a   rare  speech,  that  1  made  her 
almost  hurst  her  belly  with  laughing. 

Do.  Nay,  I  thinke  so;  and  what  speech 
was't  ? 

Ber.   What  did  I  say,  Poggio  ?  65 

Pog.  Forsooth,  my  maister  said,  that  hec  loved 
her  almost  as  well  as  hee  loved  parmasent,  and 
swore  —  rie  be  sworne  for  him  —  that  shee 
wanted  but  such  a  nose  as  his  was,  to  be  as 
pretty  a  young  woeman  as  any  was  in  Parma.      70 

Do.  Oh,  grose! 

Ber.  Nay,  unkle, —  then  shee  ask't  mec 
whether  my  father  had  any  more  children  then 
my  selfe  ;  and  I  sayd  "No,  'twere  better  hee 
should  have  had  his  braynes  knockt  out  first."     75 

Do.   This  is  intolerable. 

Ber.  Then  sayd  shee,  "  Will  Signior  Donado, 
your  unkle,  leave  you  all  his  wealth?" 

Do,  Ha  !  that  was  good  —  did  she  harpe  upon 
that  string?  j^o 

Ber.  Did  she  harpe  upon  that  string?  I,  that 
she  did.  1  answered,"  Leave  me  all  his  wealth? 
Why,  woeman,  hee  hath  no  other  wit;  if  hee 
had,  he  should  hearc  on't  to  his  everlasting  glory 
and   confusion.   1    know,"   quoth   1,"1  am   his   85 


26  'tBiapit]!  (Act  I. 

white  boy,  and  will  not  be  guld.**  And  with  that 
she  fell  into  a  great  smile,  and  went  away.  Nay, 
I  did  lit  her! 

Do.   Ah,  sirrah,  then  I  see  there  is  no  changing 
of  nature.    Well,  Bcrgetto,  I  feare  thou  wilt  be  90 
a  very  asse  still. 

Bt'r.   I  should  be  sorry  for  that,  unkle. 

Do.   Come,  come  you   home  with  me :   since 
you  are  no  better  a  speaker,  I'le  have  you  write 
to  her  after  some  courtly  manner,  and  inclose  95 
some  rich  jcwcll  in  the  letter. 

Ber.   I,  marry,  that  will  be  excellent. 

Do.   Peace,  innocent ! 
Once  in  my  time  I'le  set  my  wits  to  schoole ; 
If  all  faile,  'tis  but  the  fortune  of  a  foole.  100 

Ber.   Poggio,  'twill  doe,  Poggio.  Exeunt. 


ACTUS  SKCUNDUS.    [SCENA  PRIMA.] 

[An  apartment  in  Florw  s  house ^ 
Enter  Giovanni  and  Annabel/a  as  from  their  chamber. 

Giovanni.   Come,  Annabclla,  —  no  more  sis- 
ter now, 
But    love,  a   name    more    gracious,  —  doe    not 

blush, 
Beauties  sweete  wonder,  but  be  proud  to  know 
That  yeeldingthou  hast  conquer*d,and  inflam'd 
A  heart  whose  tribute  is  thy  brothers  life.  5 

Annabella.   And  mine   is  his!   Oh,  how  these 
stolne  contents 
Would  print  a  modest  crymson  on  my  cheekes, 
Had  any  but  my  hearts  delight  prevail'd  ! 

Gio,   1  marvaile  why  the  chaster  of  your  sex')  (^k     \c 
Should  thinke  this  pretty  toye  calTd  maiden-head  ^  *^         l 
So  strange  a  losse,  when,  being  lost, 'tis  nothing,  \ 

And  you  are  still  the  same.  . 

Anna.  'Tis  well  for  you ;  ^ 

Now  you  can  talke. 

Gw.  Musickc  aswell  consists 

In  th'  eare  as  in  the  playing. 

Anna.  Oh,  y'are  wanton  ! 

Tell  on't,  y'are  best ;  doe. 

14  y^ are.    G-D,  you're. 


28  >(rt«<  pirv  (A^vu. 

Kissc   n^c  — -  SO  !    'Duis    \\\i\\i\    \o\c   on    \  .t\\.i\ 

ncckc, 
Auvl  swck't  di\  uu'  .nnlMosi.i  (u>iu  Ium   hps. 
1  cMuv  uoi  tlir  luiohticst  xw.xu  a\\\  c  \ 
Hut  hv^Ki  mv  scltV,  in  bcMiii;  kmi\  ot  tl)cc\ 
!\loir  c.JT.i(  th.ui  wore  1  king  ot  all  thr  woiM.       lo 
Hut  I  sli.iU  lose  you,  swcct-hcari. 

.fft*t,:.  init  \  vMi  shall  uv^t  ' 

(yV^.    You  tuust  be   inariu\l,  nustirs 
.Inmi.  ^  rs,  to  wIumw? 

Ct/#.   Sv>tuc  v>nc  iwust  \\.\\  c  vou. 
Annn*  ^  ou  must. 

Gi<.  Nav,  sonu'  other. 

/•:•;.;,   Now,  piitlu'c,  do  not  spcakc  Sv> ,  with- 
vHlt  jcstiuvv 
^  ou'lc  luakc  luc  wccpr  in  cMrt\rst.  j 

Ct;>.  \\  hat,  \  ou  will  not!   45     ! 

Hut    tell    \\\Cy  swcote,   oans't    thou    be    daiM   to 

swcarc 
That   thou  wilt  li\c  tv">  lurr,  aiul  to  uo  other? 
Ann,:     Hv  both   v>ui    Km  es    I    ilaic;    tor   didst 
thvHi  know, 
Mv  Ciunanni,  how  all  sinters  sccn\c 
'Vo  my  eyes  hatetuU,  thou  wouKlst  trust  mee  then.    30 

tft    TVn  muit  A*  mtrriHt^  mistrts.  }^  ymm  y>\\  lit\c  abort. 

*«-3    IVj  .  .  >  i^nHy^m.  JJ  prints  on  one  lino. 

«X    !*•  awjf.    Crr».    Ntty,  ttmt  i^itr     <J  ptintii  on  one  line. 


r/KJHt  parr. , 

Utrntzftihrr  wU'4t    thou     /oy/''.;f,    k':':{>':     -//'W     xu-f 

heart. 
/Jnna.    W/II  you  bc^on  ? 

/Inna.  Wh/m  to  n-Aiirnf,^ 

(iio.  S'>o/ic. 

/Jrina.  i^Ofjlc':  -j'tM  A'>*:. 

(tio .  f  a  r ':  v/ ':  I ! .    /f;^'//. 

/Inna.   (  i<,'-  y/h' r*:  thou  wilt, In  rrjinrj  J']':  kcfrjx: 

th'-':   fi';r':,  55 

And  whcf*:  rhoij  ;4rf.  J  know  1  »»ha]J  be  tbrrrc. 
( iti-^r(\inii  ' 

/;/if/^-r  I' u tana, 

I'utana    f  ^luld,  hoy/ ii»'t,chiJd  ?  Wcll,thanke 
hravcn,  ha  ' 

/Inna.    ()  ^/uarrlj'an,  what  a  paradj-.r:  of  joy 
Hav:  J  pa'-jf  over  '  40 

/''«/.  Nay,  what  a  parddh*:  of  joy  hav:  you 
p^i'J  tjfifjrr'  W}]y  no//  1  cornmfrnd  th<:e, 
<  \\'Au\'.rr,  \- rMr<:  nofliin;/,  Hwcctc-hcart,  what 
ihou;/h  hcf:  be  your  l^rothcr:  your  brothcr'v,  a 
man,  I  hope,  and  J  nay  still,  j'f  a  younj.^  wench  45 
fccic  the  fitt  upon  her,  let  her  take  any  body 
father  or  brother,  all  is  one. 

33    4    fVill  you   he^onf    (itu.    I   mutt     nakr*  our    lln/:  </f  Q  i 
IVhen  10  returntt   (it't.   :iof,n«.   ^luAiierj  nitd  ly/oh  j6u  (Ue.     do. 


30  '^ifii  ipit^  [Act  II. 

Anna.  I  would  not  have  it  knowne  for  all  the 
world. 

Put.  Nor  1,  indeed,  for  the  speech  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  else  'twere  nothing. 

Florio  {ivithin).    Daughter  Annabella! 

Anna.   O    niee !    my  father.  —  Here,  sir !  — 
Reach  my  worke. 

Flo.  {withiTi).   What  are  you  doeing  ? 

Anna.  So,  let  him  come  now. 

Enter  Florio^  Richardetto  like  a  Doctor  of  Phisicke, 
and  Philotis  zvith  a  lute  in  her  hand. 

Flo,  So  hard  at  worke  !  that's  well ;  you  lose 
no  time 
Looke,  I  have  brought  you  company  ;  here's  one  55 
A  learned  doctor,  lately  come  from  Padua, 
Much  skild  in  physicke ;  and,  for  that  I  see 
You  have  of  late  beene  sickly,  I  entreated 
This  reverent  man  to  visit  you  some  time. 

Anna.   Y'are  very  welcome,  sir. 

Richardetto.  I  thanke  you,  mistresse.  60 

Loud  fame  in  large  report  hath  spoke  your  praise 
Aswell  for  vertue  as  perfection  : 
For  which  I  have  beene  bold  to  bring  with  mee 
A  kins-woeman  of  mine,  a  maide,  for  song 
And  musicke  one  perhaps  will  give  content.         65 
Please  you  to  know  her. 

Anna.  They  are  parts  I  love. 

And  shec  for  them  most  welcome. 


Scene  I.)  'tlTl^  ^it^  3 1 

Philotis.  Thanke  you,  lady. 

Flo.   Sir,  now  you  know  my  house,  pray  make 
not  strange ; 
And  if  you  findc  my  daughter  necde  your  art, 
I'le  be  your  pay-master. 

Rich.  Sir,  what  I  am  70 

Shee  shall  command. 

Flo.  You  shall  bind  me  to  you. 

Daughter,  I  must  have  conference  with  you 
About  some  matters  that  concernes  us  both. 
Good  Maister  Doctor,  please  you  but  walke  in, 
Wec'le  crave  a  little  of  your  cozens  cunning  :      75 
I  thinke  my  girle  hath  not  quite  forgot 
To  touch  an  instrument;  she  could  have  don't: 
Wee'le  heare  them  both. 

Rich,  V\^  waite  upon  you,  sir.    Exeunt. 

[SCENA    SECUNDA.] 

Enter  Soranzo  in  his  study  reading  a  booke. 
'^Soran'z.o^    Loves  measure  is  extreame.^  the  com- 
fort paine^ 
The  life  unrest^  and  the  reward  disdaine. 
What's  here  ?  lookt  o're  again.  'Tis  so  ;  so  writes 
This  smooth  licentious  poet  in  his  rymes. 
But,  Sanazar,  thou  lyest;   for  had  thy  bosome        r 
Felt  such  oppression  as  is  laid  on  mine, 

70-1    6'/>  .  .  .  command.   Q  prints  as  one  line. 


32  'art0  pitr  i^^  "• 

Thou  woiildst   have  kist  the  rod  that  made  the 

smart. 
To  worke,  then,  happy  Muse,  and  contradict 
What  Sanazer  hath  in  his  envy  writ. 

Loves  measure  is  the  meane^  sweet  his  annoy es^     lo 
His  pleasuyes  life^  and  his  mvard  all  joy cs. 

Had  Annabella  liv'd  when  Sanazar 
I^id  in  his  briefe  Encomium  celebrate 
Venice,  that  queene  ot  citties,  he  had  left 
That  verse  which  gaind  him   such  a  summc  of 

gold,  15 

And  for  one  onelv  looke  from  Annabell 
Had  writ  of  her  and  her  diviner  cheekes. 
O,  how  my  thoughts  are — 

f\jsques  {icithi?i).  Pray,  forbeare  ;   in  rules  of 
civility,  let  me  give  notice  on't :  I  shall  be  tax't  io 
of  my  neglect  of  duty  and  service. 

Soran.   What    rude    intrusion   interrupts    my 
peace  ? 
Can  I  be  no  where  private  ? 

Fas.  {ivithin).  IVoth,  you  wrong  your  modesty. 

Soran.   What's  the  matter,  Vasques  ?  who  is't  ? 
Enter  Hippo  lit  a  and  Vasques. 

HippoUta.  *Tis  1 :  15 

Doe  you  know  mee  now  ?   Looke,  perjurd  man, 
on  her 

7  the  smart.      G-D,  the  [o]  smart. 
13    Encomium.    <^,    Euconium. 


scENKii.i  'tE^i0jBit^  33 

Whom  thou  and  thy  distracted  lust  have  wrong'd. 
Thy  sensuall  rage  of  blood  hath  made  my  youth 
A  scorne  to  men  and  angels  ;  and  shall  I 
Be  now  a  foyle  to  thy  un sated  change  ?  30 

Thou  knowst,  false   wanton,   when   my  modest 

fame 
Stood  free  from  staineor  scandall,  all  the  charmes 
Of  hell  or  sorcery  could  not  prevaile 
Against  the  honour  of  my  chaster  bosome. 
Thyne  eyes  did   pleade  in  teares,  thy  tongue  in 

oathes,  35 

Such  and  so  many  that  a  heart  of  Steele 
Would  have  beene  wrought  to  pitty,  as  was  mine : 
And  shall  the  conquest  of  my  lawfull  bed, 
My  husbands  death,  urg'd  on  by  his  disgrace, 
My  losse  of  woeman-hood,  be  ill  rewarded  40 

With  hatred  and  contempt  ?  No  ;  know,  Soranzo, 
I  have  a  spirit  doth  as  much  distast 
The  slavery  of  fearing  thee,  as  thou 
Dost  loath  the  memory  of  what  hath  past. 
Srjran.   Nay,  deare  Hippolita, — 
Hip.  Call  me  not  deare,  45 

Nor  thinke  with    supple   words    to   smooth   the 

grosenesse 
Of  my  abuses.   'Tis  not  your  new  mistresse, 
Your  goodly  Madam  Merchant,  shall  triumph 
On  my  dejection  ;  tell  her  thus  from  mee. 
My  byrth  was  nobler  and  by  much  more  free.      50 


34  'GTififJDit^  (Act  II. 

Soran,  You  are  too  violent. 

Hip.  You  are  too  double 

In  your  dissimulation.  See'st  thou  this, 
This  habit,   these   blacke  mourning  weedes  of 

care  ? 
'Tis  thou  art  cause  of  this,  and  hast  divorc't 
My  husband  from  his  life,  and  me  from  him,        55 
And  made  me  widdow  in  my  widdow-hood. 

Soran.  Will  you  yet  heare  ? 

Hip.  More  of  the  perjuries  ? 

Thy    soule    is   drown'd    too   deepely    in    those 

sinnes  ; 
Thou  needs't  not  add  to  th'  number. 

Soran»  Then  I'le  leave  you. 

You  are  past  all  rules  of  sence. 

Hip.  And  thou  of  grace.  60 

Vasques.  Fy,  mistresse,  you  are  not  neere  the 
limits  of  reason  :  if  my  lord  had  a  resolution  as 
noble  as  vertue  it  selfe,  you  take  the  course  to 
unedge  it  all.  Sir,  I  beseech  you,  doe  not  per- 
plexe  her  ;  griefes,  alas,  will  have  a  vent :  I  dare  65 
undertake  Madam  Hippolita  will  now  freely 
heare  you. 

Soran.   Talke    to    a   woman  frantick !  —  Are 
these  the  fruits  of  your  love  ? 

Hip.  They  are  the  fruites  of  thy  untruth,  false 
man !  70 

57  the.   G-D,   thy. 


Scene  II.]  'tH^i^  ^It^  35 

Didst  thou  not  sweare,  whil'st  yet  my  husband 

liv'd, 
That  thou  wouldst  wish  no  happinesse  on  earth 
More  then  to  call  me  wife  ?   Didst  thou  not  vow 
When  hee  should  dye  to  marry  mee  ?  —  for  which 
The  devill  in  my  blood,  and  thy  protests,  75 

Caus'd  mee  to  counsaile  him  to  undertake 
A  voyage  to  Ligorne,  for  that  we  heard 
His  brother  there  was  dead  and  left  a  daughter 
Young  and  unfriended,  who,  with  much  adoe, 
I  wish't  him  to  bring  hither.   He  did  so,  go 

And  went ;  and,  as  thou  know*st,  dyed   on    the 

way. 
Unhappy  man,  to  buy  his  death  so  deare. 
With  my  advice  !  Yet  thou,  for  whom  I  did  it, 
Forget'st  thy  vowes,  and  leav'st  me  to  my  shame. 

Soran.   Who  could  helpe  this  ? 

Hip.  Who!  perjur'd  man,  thou  couldst,  85 

If  thou  hadst  faith  or  love. 

Soran.  You  are  deceived : 

The  vowes  I  made,  if  you  remember  well. 
Were  wicked  and  unlawfull ;  'twere  more  sinne 
To  keepe  them  then  to  breake  them:  as  for  mee 
I  cannot  maske  my  penitence.   Thinke  thou         9° 
How  much  thou  hast  digrest  from  honest  shame 
In  bringing  of  a  gentleman  to  death 
Who  was  thy  husband  ;  such  a  one  as  hee, 
So  noble  in  his  quality,  condition, 


36  '3ri0  Pit^  [Act  II. 

Learning,  behaviour,  entertainment,  love,  95 

As  Parma  could  not  shew  a  braver  man. 

Fas.  You   doe  not   well  j   this  was  not  your 
promise. 

Soran.  I  care  not ;  let  her   know   her   mon- 
struous  life. 
Ere  rie  be  servile  to  so  blacke  a  sinne, 
rie  be  a  curse.   Woeman,  come  here  no  more;   100 
Learne  to  repent  and  dye  ;  for,  by  my  honour, 
I  hate  thee  and   thy  lust:   you   have    beene   too 
foule.  [^Av/.] 

Vns.  This  part  has  beene  scurvily  playd. 

Hip.   How  foolishly  this  beast  contemnes  his 
fate. 
And  shuns  the  use  of  that  which  I  more  scorneio5 
Then  I  once  lov'd,  his  love  !    But  let  him  goe  ; 
My  vengeance  shall  give  comfort  to  his  woe. 

She  offers  to  goe  away. 

Fas.  Mistresse,  Mistresse,  Madam  Hippolita  ! 
pray,  a  word  or  two. 

Hip.  With  mee,  sir?  no 

Fas.   With  you,  if  you  please. 

Hip.  What  is't  ? 

Fas.  I  know  you  are  infinitely  mov*d  now, 
and  you  thinke  you  have  cause  :  some  I  confesse 
you  have,  but  sure  not  so  much  as  you  imagine.  115 

Hip.   Indeed  ! 

Fas.  O  you  were  miserably  bitter,  which  you 


SCTNrii.i  'tn^is^pit^  37 

followed  even    to   the    last   sillahle.    Faith,   you 
were    somewhat    too    shrewd ;    by  my  life,    you 
could  not  have  tooke  my  lord    in   a   worse  time  120 
since  I  first   knew  h?m  ;  to  morrow  you  shall 
findc  him  a  new  man. 

Hip.    Well,  1  shall  waite  his  leasurc. 

l^as.   Fie,    this    is    not    a   hearty    patience  ;  it 
comes  sowerly  from  you  :  troth,  let  me  perswadei25 
you  for  once. 

Hip.  ]^aside]^.  I  have  it,  and  it  shall  be  so; 
thanks,  opportunity  !  —  Perswade  me  to  what? 

l^as.   Visitt  him  in  some  milder  temper.   0,if 
you  could  but  master  a  little  yourfemall  spleen,  130 
how  might  you  winne  him  ! 

Hip.  Hec  wil  never  love  me.  Vasfjues,  thou 
hast  bin  a  too  trusty  servant  to  such  a  master, 
and  I  beleeve  thy  reward  in  the  end  wil  fal  [I] 
out  like  mine.  135 

l^as.   So,  perhaps,  too. 

Hip.   Resolve  thy  selfe  it  will.    Had  I  one  so 
true,  so  truely  honest,  so  secret  to  my  counsels, 
as   thou  hast    bcene   to   him   and    his,  I  should 
thinke  it  a  slight  acquittance,  not  onely  to  make  140 
him  maister  of  all  I  have,  but  even  of  my  selfe. 

f^as.   O,  you  are  a  noble  gentlewoman. 

Hip.  Wu't  thou  feede  alwayes  upon  hopes? 
Well,  I    know  thou  art  wise,  and   see'st  the  re- 
ward of  an  old  servant  daily,  what  it  is.  145 


38  'tBi&^it^  [Act  II. 

jTas.   Beggery  and  neglect. 

Hip.  True;  but,  Vasques,  wer't  thou  mine, 
and  wouldst  bee  private  to  me  and  my  designes, 
I  here  protest  my  selfe  and  all  what  I  can  else 
call  myne  should  be  at  thy  dispose.  150 

Fas.  [aside^ .  Worke  you  that  way,  old  moule  ? 
then  I  have  the  wind  of  you.  —  I  were  not 
worthy  of  it  by  any  desert  that  could  lye  — 
within  my  compasse;  if  I  could  — 

Hip.   What  then?  155 

Fas.  I  should  then  hope  to  live  in  these  my 
old  yeares  with  rest  and  security. 

Hip.   Give  me  thy  hand :  now  promise  but 
thy  silence. 
And  helpe  to  bring  to  passe  a  plot  I  have, 
And  here  in  sight  of  heaven,  that  being  done,     160 
I  make  thee  lord  of  mee  and  mine  estate. 

Fas.  Come,  you  are  merry ;  this  is  such  a 
happinesse  that  I  can  neither  thinke  or  beleeve. 

Hip.    Promise  thy  secresie,  and  'tis  confirm'd. 

Fas.   Then  here  1  call  our  good  genii  for  wit- 165 
nesses,  whatsoever  your  designes  are,  or  against 
whomsoever,  I  will  not  onely  be  a  speciall  actor 
therein,  but  never  disclose  it  till  it  be  effected. 

Hip.  I  take  thy  word,  and,  with  that,  thee 
for  mine ; 
Come,  then,  let's  more  conferre  of  this  anon.      170 

165-6  ybr  'witnesses.   So  G-D.    J2>  foe-witnesses. 


scEN£  III.]  'tirifif  |Bit^  39 

On  this  delicious  bane  my  thoughts  shall  ban- 
quet ; 

Revenge  shall  sweeten  what  my  griefes  have 
tasted.  Exeunt, 

[SCENA  TERTIA.] 
\The  street ^^ 

Enter  Richardetto  and  Philotis. 

Richardetto.    Thou  see'st,  my  lovely  neece, 
these  strange  mishaps, 
How  all  my  fortunes  turne  to  my  disgrace, 
Wherein  1  am  but  as  a  looker  on 
Whiles  others  act  my  shame,  and  I  am  silent. 

Philotis.   But ,  unkle,   wherein   can   this  bor- 
rowed shape  S 
Give  you  content  ? 

Rich.  rie  tell  thee,  gentle  neece: 

Thy  wanton  aunt  in  her  lascivious  riotts 
Lives  now  secure,  thinkes  I  am  surely  dead 
In  my  late  journey  to  Ligorne  for  you, — 
As  I  have  caus'd  it  to  be  rumord  out, —  lo 

Now  would  I  see  with  what  an  impudence 
Shee  gives  scope  to  her  loose  adultery. 
And  how  the  common  voyce  allowes  hereof: 
Thus  farre  I  have  prevail'd. 

Phil.  Alas,  I  feare 

You  meane  some  strange  revenge. 


40  '®i0^lt^  IActII. 

Rich.  O,  be  not  troubled  ;   15 

Your  ignorance  shall  pleade  for  you  in  all : 
But  to  our  businesse.     What !  you  learnt  for 

certaine 
How  Signior  Florio  meanes  to  give  his  daughter 
In  marriage  to  Soranzo  ? 

Phil.  Yes,  for  certaine. 

Rich.   But  how  finde  you  young  Annabella's 

love  ao 

Inclind  to  him  ? 

Phil.  For  ought  I  could  perceive, 

She  neyther  fancies  him  or  any  else. 

Rich.  There's  mystery  in  that  which    time 
must  shew. 
Shee  us*d  you  kindly  ? 

Phil.  Yes. 

Rich.  And  cravM  your  company  ? 

Phil.   Often. 

Rich.  'T  is  well ;  it  goes  as  I  could  wish.  25 

I  am  the  doctor  now ;  and  as  for  you. 
None  knowes  you;  if  all  faile  not,  we  shall  thrive. 

(  Enter  Grimaldi. ) 
But  who  comes  here?   I  know  him  ;  'tis  Grimaldi, 
A  Roman  and  a  souldier,  neere  allyed 
Unto  the  Duke  of  Montferrato,  one  30 

Attending  on  the  nuntio  of  the  pope 

24-5   Shct  uid .  .  .  could  wisA.  Q  does  not  observe  verse  arrange- 
ment. 


Scene  III.l  'tETtS?  |Bit^  4 1 

That  now  resides  in  Parma;  by  which  meanes 
He  hopes  to  get  the  love  of  Annabella. 

Grimaldi.  Save  you,  sir. 

Rich.  And  you,  sir. 

Gri.  I  have  heard 

Of  your    approvM    skill,   which    through    the 

city  35 

Is  freely  talkt  of,  and  would  crave  your  ayd. 

Rich,   For  what,  sir? 

Gri.   Marry,  sir,  for  this  — 
But  I  would  speake  in  private. 

Rich.  Leave  us,  cozen. 

Exit  Phi. 

Gri.  I  love  faire  Annabella,  and  would  know  40 
Whether  in  arts  there  may  not  be  receipts 
To  move  affection. 

Rich.  Sir,  perhaps  there  may; 

But  these  will  nothing  profit  you. 

Gri.  Not  mee? 

Rich.   Unlesse  I   be  mistooke,  you  are  a  man 
Greatly  in  favour  with  the  cardinall.  45 

Gri.   What  of  that  ? 

Rich.  In  duty  to  his  grace, 

I  will  be  bold  to  tell  you,  if  you  seeke 
To  marry  Florio's  daughter,  you  must  first 
Remove  a  barre  twixt  you  and  her. 

Gri,  Whose  that? 

41   arts.    Changed  by  D  in  G-D  to  art. 


42  'tCis;  pitp  [Act  II. 

Rich.    Soranzo  is  the  man  that  hath  her  heart ;  50 
And  while  hee  lives,  be  sure  you  cannot  speed. 

Gri.    Soranzo  !   what,  mine  enemy  !   is't  hee? 

Rich.   Is  hee  your  enemy? 

Gri,  The  man  I  hate 

Worse  then  confusion;  Fie  tell  him  streight. 

Rich.   Nay,  then,  take  mine  advice,  55 

Even  for  his  graces  sake,  the  cardinall: 
I'le  finde  a  time  when  hee  and  shee  doe  meete, 
Of  which  Pie  give  you  notice ;  and,  to  be  sure 
Hee  shall  not  scape  you.  Fie  provide  a  poyson 
To  dip  your  rapiers  poynt  in  :   if  hee  had  60 

As  many  heads  as  Hidra  had,  he  dyes. 

Gri.   But  shall  I  trust  thee,  doctor? 

Rich.  Asyourselfe; 

Doubt  not  in  ought ;  thus  shall  the  fates  decree, 
By  me  Soranzo  falls,  that  ruin'd  mee. 

Exeunt. 

[SCENA    QlJhKV A  — Another  part    of  the 
street. ~\ 

Enter  Donadoy  Bergetto  and  Poggio. 

Donado.   Well,  sir,  I  must  bee  content  to  be 

both  your  secretary  and  your  messenger  my  selfe. 

I  cannot  tell  what  this  letter  may  worke  ;   but, 

as  sure  as  I  am  alive,  if  thou  come  once  to  talke 

54  ttll.   G  suggests  to. 

64  ruip'd.   So  G-D.   Q,  min'd. 


Scene  IV.]  '®ifi(  pit^  43 

with  her,  I  feare  thou  wu't  marre  whatsoever  I     5 
make. 

Bergetto.   You  make,  unkle  ?    Why  am  not  I 
bigge  enough  to  carry  mine  owne  letter,  I  pray  ? 

Do.   I,  I,  carry  a  fooles  head   o'  thy  owne  I 
Why,  thou  dunce,  wouldst  thou  write  a  letter,  10 
and  carry  it  thy  selfe? 

Ber.  Yes,  that  I  wudd,  and  reade  it  to  her 
with  my  owne  mouth  ;  for  you  must  thinke,  if 
shee  will  not  beleeve  me  my  selfe  when  she 
heares  me  speake,  she  will  not  beleeve  anothers  15 
handwriting.  O,  you  thinke  I  am  a  blocke- 
head,  unkle.  No,  sir.  Poggio  knowes  I  have  in- 
dited a  letter  my  selfe ;   so  I  have. 

Poggio.  Yes,  truely,  sir ;   I  have  it  my  pocket. 

Do.  A  sweete  one,  no  doubt ;  pray,  let's  see't.  20 

Ber.   I  cannot  reade  my  owne  hand  very  well, 
Poggio  ;   reade  it,  Poggio. 

Do.  Begin. 

Poggio  reades. 

Pog.  Most  dainty  and  honey-sweete  Mistresse : 
I  could  call  you  fair e.,  and  lie  as  fast  as  any  that  25 
loves  you  ;  hut  my  unkle  being  the  elder  tnan^  I 
leave  it  to  him.,  as  more  ft  for  his  age  and  the  colour 
of  his  beard.  I  am  wise  enough  to  tell  you  I  can  board 
where  I  see  occasion  ;  or  if  you  like  my  unkles  wit 
better  then  mine.,  you  shall  marry  mee ;  if  you  like  3° 
mine  better  then  his^  I  will  marry  you  in  spight  of 


44  '®t0j0it^  [ActH. 

your  teeth.   So,  commending  my  best  parts  to  you^  I 
rest 

Tours  upwards  and  downewards, 

or  you  may  chose,  35 

Bergetto. 

Ber.  Ah,  ha  !  here's  stufFe,  unkle ! 

Do.  Here's  stufFe  indeed  to  shame  us  all. 
Pray,  whose  advice  did  you  take  in  this  learned 
letter  ?  40 

Pog.  None,  upon  my  word,  but  mine  owne. 

Ber.  And  mine,  unkle,  beleeve  it,  no  bodies 
else  I  'twas  mine  owne  brayne,  I  thanke  a  good 
wit  for't. 

Do.  Get  you  home,  sir,  and  looke  you  keepe  45 
within  doores  till  I  returne. 

Ber.  How  !  that  were  a  jest  indeede  ;  I  scorne 
it,  yfaith. 

Do.  What !  you  doe  not  ? 

Ber.  Judge  me,  but  I  doe  now.  S^ 

Pog.   Indeede,  sir,  'tis  very  unhealthy. 

Do.  Well,  sir,  if  I  heare  any  of  your  apish 
running  to  motions  and  fopperies  till  I  come 
backe,  you  were  as  good  no;  looke  too't. 

Exit  Do. 

Ber.   Poggio,  shall  *s  steale  to  see  this  horse  55 
with  the  head  in's  tayle  ? 

Pog.   I,  but  you  must  take  heede  of  whipping. 

Ber.  Dost  take  me  for  a  child,  Poggio  ? 
Come,  honest  Poggio.  Exeunt, 


scENrv.i  '®i0pit^  45 

[SCENA     QUINTA  —  Fnar     Bonaventura's 

cell.] 

Enter  Fryar  and  Giovanni. 
Fryar.   Peace,  thou  hast  told  a  tale  whose  every 
word 
Threatens  eternall  slaughter  to  the  soule : 
Tme  sorry  I  have  heard  it ;  would  mine  eares 
Had  beene  one  minute  deafe,  before  the  houre 
That  thou  cam'st  to  mee!    O  young  man  cast- 
away, ^ 
By  the  relligious  number  of  mine  order, 
I  day  and  night  have  wak't  my  aged  eyes 
Above  thy  strength,  to  weepe  on  thy  behalfe ; 
But  Heaven  is  angry,  and  be  thou  resolv'd 
Thou  art  a  man  remarket  to  tast  a  mischiefe.       lo 
Looke  for't ;  though  it  come  late,  it  will  come 
sure. 
Giovanni.   Father,  in  this  you  are  uncharitable ; 
What  I  have  done  Pie  prove  both  fit  and  good. 
It  is  a  principall,  which  you  have  taught 
When  I  was  yet  your  scholler,  that  the  f  [r]ame  15 
And  composition  of  the  minde  doth  follow 
The  frame  and  composition  of  body  : 
So,  where  the  bodies  furniture  is  beauty, 

6  number.  G  suggests yban^er,  8  thy.   G,  my. 

15  f\r'\ame.   Corrected  by  G. 

17  of  body.   G-D  supplies  [the]  before  body. 


46  '^is;  Pitl?  [Act  II. 

Thcmindes  must  needs  bevcrtue;  which  allowed, 

Vertue  it  selfe  is  reason  but  refin'd,  20 

And  love  the  quintessence  of  that :  this  proves 

My  sisters  beauty  being  rarely  faire 

Is  rarely  vertuous  ;   chiefely  in  her  love, 

And  chiefely  in  that  love,  her  love  to  me. 

If  hers  to  me,  then  so  is  mine  to  her ;  25 

Since  in  like  causes  are  effects  alike. 

Fry,   O  ignorance  in  knowledge  !   Long  agoe, 
How  often  have  I  warn'd  thee  this  before  ! 
Indeede,  if  we  were  sure  there  were  no  deity. 
Nor  heaven  nor  hell,  then  to  be  lead  alone  30 

By  natures  light — as  were  philosophers 
Of  elder  times  —  might  instance  some  defence. 
But  'tis  not  so ;  then,  madman,  thou  wilt  tinde 
That  nature  is  in  heavens  positions  blind. 

Gio,  Your  age  o're  rules  you  ;  had  you  youth 

like  mine,  35 

You'd    make   her   love   your   heaven,  and    her 

divine. 
Fry.  Nay,  then  I  see  th'  art  too  farre  sold  to 

hell : 
It  lies  not  in  the  compasse  of  my  prayers 
To  call  thee  backe  ;  yet  let  me  counsell  thee : 
Perswade  thy  sister  to  some  marriage.  40 

Gio.   Marriage !   why,  that's  to  dambe   her  j 

that's  to  prove 
Her  greedy  of  variety  of  lust. 


Scene  V.)  'tE^i^H  ^{t^  47 

Fry,   O  fcarcfull  !   if  thou  wilt   not,  give  me 
leave 
To  shrive  her,  lest  shee  should  dye  un-absolv'd. 

Gio.  At  your  best  leasure,  father  :  then  shee'le 

tell  you  45 

How  dearely  shee  doth  prize  mymatchlesse  love  ; 

I'hen  you  will  know  what  pitty  'twere  we  two 

Should   have   beene    sundred  from  each   others 

armes. 
View  well  her  face,  and  in  that  little  round 
You  may  observe  a  world  of  variety  ;  50 

For  colour,  lips  ;  for  sweet  perfumes,  her  breath  j 
For  jewels,  eyes  ;   for  threds  of  purest  gold, 
Hayre ;  for  delicious  choyce  of  flowers,  cheekes  ; 
Wonder  in  every  portion  of  that  throne. 
Heare  her  but  speake,  and  you  will   sweare  the 

sphaeres  55 

Make  musicke  to  the  cittizens  in  heaven. 
But,  father,  what  is  else  for  pleasure  fram'd. 
Least  I  offend  your  eares,  shall  goe  un-nam'd. 

Fry.  The  more  I  heare,  I  pitty  thee  the  more. 
That  one  so  excellent  should  give  those  parts      60 
All  to  a  second  death.   What  I  can  doe 
Is  but  to  pray ;  and  yet  I  could  advise  thee, 
Wouldst  thou  be  rul'd. 

Gio,  In  what  ? 

Fry,  Why,  leave  her  yet: 

50  Ivor /J  of  variety.    G-D,  world's  variety. 


48  '^is;  pit^  (Act  IL 

The  throne  of  mercy  is  above  your  trespasse; 
Yet  time  is  left  you  both  — 

Gio.  To  embrace  each  other.  65 

Else  let  all  time  be  strucke  quite  out  of  number: 
She  is  like  mee,  and  I  like  her,  resolv'd. 

Fry.  No  more  !  Fie  visit  her ;  this  grieves  me 
most, 
Things  being  thus,  a  paire  of  soules  are  lost. 

Exeunt, 

[SCENA   SEXTA.     J  room  in  Florio's  bouse.'] 
Efiter  Florioy  Donado,  Afmabella,  Putana. 

Flor'to.  Where's  Giovanni  ? 

Annabella.  Newly  walk*t  abroad, 

And,  as  I  heard  him  say,  gon  to  the  fryar, 
His  reverent  tutor. 

Flo.  That's  a  blessed  man, 

A  man  made  up  of  holinesse  :  I  hope 
Hee'le  teach  him  how  to  gaine  another  world.        5 

Donado.   Faire   gentlewoman,  here's   a  letter 
sent 
To  you  from  my  young  cozen;  I  dare  sweare 
He  loves  you   in   his  soule  :   would  you   could 

heare 
Sometimes  what  I  see  dayly,  sighes  and  teares, 
As  if  his  breast  were  prison  to  his  heart.  10 

Flo.   Receive  it,  Annabella. 

Anna.  Alas,  good  man  ! 


Scene  VI.]  >®ifi;  ^if^  49 

Do.  What's  that  she  said? 

Tutana.   And  please  you,  sir,  she  sayd,  "  Alas, 
good  man!"  Truely  1  doe  commend  him  to  her  ^5 
every  night   before  her   first  sleepe,  because  I 
would  have  her  dreame  of  him ;  and  shee  bark- 
ens to  that  most  relligiously. 

Do.  Say*st  so  ?   Godamercy,   Putana,  there's 
something  for  thee ;  and  prythce  doe  u'hat  thou  10 
canst  on   his  behalfe ;   sha'  not    be  lost  labour, 
take  my  word  for't. 

Put.  Thanke  you  most  heartily,  sir;  now  I 
have  a  feeling  of  your  mind,  let  mce  alone  to 
worke.  25 

Jnna.   Guardian  ! 

Put.   Did  you  call  ? 

Anna.   Kecpe  this  letter. 

Do.  Signior  Florio,  in  any  case  bid  her  reade 
it  instantly.  30 

Flo.  Keepe  it  for  what  ?  pray,  reade  it  mee 
here  right. 

Anna.   I  shall,  sir.  .  She  reades. 

Do.   How  d'ee  finde  her  inclin'd,  signior  ? 

Flo.  Troth,  sir,  I  know  not  how ;   not  all  so 

well  35 

As  I  could  wish. 

Anna.   Sir,  I  am   bound  to  rest  your  cozens 
debter. 

21    Sha      G-D,  'shall. 

31    Keepe  it  for  luhatf  G-D,  Keep  it !  for  what  ? 


50  '®i0Pt^  [Act  II. 

The  Jewell  Pie  returne;  for  if  he  love, 
rie  count  that  love  a  Jewell. 

Do.  Marke  you  that  ?  — 

Nay,  keepe  them  both,  sweete  maide. 

Jnna.  You  must  excuse  mee.  40 

Indeed  I  will  not  keepe  it. 

Flo.  Where's  the  ring 

That  which  your  mother  in  her  will  bequeath'd. 
And  charg'd  you  on  her  blessing  not  to  give't 
To  any  but  your  husband  ?  Send  backe  that. 

Jnna.   I  have  it  not. 

Flo.  Ha !  have  it  not !  where  is't .?  45 

Anna.  My  brother  in  the  morning  tooke  it 
from  me. 
Said  he  would  weare't  to  day. 

Flo.  Well,  what  doe  you  say 

To  young  Bergetto's  love  ?  Are  you  content 
To  match  with  him  ?   Speake. 

Do.  There's  the  poynt,  indeed. 

Jnna  [aside'].  What  shal  I  doe?   I  must  say 

something  now.  50 

Flo.  What  say }  Why  d'ee  not  speake  ? 

Jnna.  Sir,  with  your  leave. 

Please  you  to  give  me  freedome  ? 

Flo.  Yes,  you  have. 

Jnna.  Signior  Donado,  if  your  nephew  meane 
To  rayse  his  better  fortunes  in  his  match, 

52    Tes,  you  have.  G-D  supplies  "it"  after  "have." 


Scene  VI.J  '®t0  pit^  51 

The  hope  of  mee  will  hinder  such  a  hope  : 
Sir,  if  you  love  him,  as  I  know  you  doe,  55 

Find  one  more  worthy  of  his  choyce  then  mee. 
In  short,  I'me  sure,  I  sha'  not  be  his  wife. 
Do.   Why,  here's  plaine  dealing  j  I  commend 

thee  for't ; 
And  all  the  worst  I  wish  thee,  is  heaven  blesse 

thee! 
Your  father  yet  and  I  will  still  be  friends  —         60 
Shall  we  not,  Signior  Florio  ? 

Flo.  Yes,  why  not  ? 

Looke,  here  your  cozen  comes. 

Enter  Bergetto  and  Poggio. 

Do.  \_aside^.  Oh,  coxcombe  !  what  doth  he 
make  here  ? 

Bergetto.   Where's  my  unkle,  sirs  ?  6s 

Do.   What's  the  newes  now? 

Ber.  Save  you,  unkle,  save  you  !  You  must 
not  thinke  I  come  for  nothing,  maisters.  And 
how,  and  how  is't  ?  What,  you  have  read  my 
letter  ?  Ah,  there  I  —  tickled  you,  yfaith.  70 

Poggto  [aside  to  Ber.'].  But  'twere  better  you 
had  tickled  her  in  another  place. 

Ber.  Sirrah  sweet-heart,  I'le  tell  thee  a  good 
jest ;  and  riddle  what  'tis. 

Jnna.  You  say  you'd  tell  mee.  75 

75  you  d.   G-D,  you'll. 


52  'Qtifi;  Pit^  [Act  II. 

Ber.  As  I  was  walking  just  now  in  the  streete, 
I  mett  a  swaggering  fellow  would  needs  take 
the  wall  of  me  ;  and  because  hee  did  thrust  me,  1 
very  valiantly  cal'd  him  rogue.  Hee  hereupon 
bad  me  drawe ;  I  told  him  I  had  more  wit  then  80 
so  :  but  when  hee  saw  that  I  would  not,  hee  did 
so  maule  me  with  the  hilts  of  his  rapier  that  my 
head  sung  whil'st  my  feete  caper'd  in  the  ken- 
nell. 

Do.  Was  ever  the  like  asse  seene  ?  85 

Anna.   And  what  did  you  all  this  while  ? 

Ber.  Laugh  at  him  for  a  gull,  till  I  see  the 
blood  runne  about  mine  eares,  and  then  I  could 
not  choose  but  finde  in  my  heart  to  cry  ;  till  a 
fellow  with  a  broad  beard  —  they  say  hee  is  a  90 
new-come  doctor — cald  mee  into  his  house,  and 
gave  me  a  playster;  looke  you,  here  'tis;  and, 
sir,  there  was  a  young  wench  washt  my  face  and 
hands  most  excellently ;  yfaith,  I  shall  love  her 
as  long  as  I  live   for't,  —  did  she  not,  Poggio  ?  95 

Pog.  Yes,  and  kist  him  too. 

Ber.  Why,  la,  now,  you  thinke  I  tell  a  lye, 
unkle,  I  warrant. 

Do.   Would   hee  that  beatc  thy  blood  out  of 
thy  head  had  beaten  some  wit  into  it ;  for  I  feare  100 
thou  never  wilt  have  any. 

Ber.   Oh,  unkle,  but  there  was  a  wench  would 

87  ite.   G-D,  saw.  91   hh.  So  G-D.   Q,  this. 


Scene  VI.l  '^{^  ^it^  53 

have  done  a  mans  heart  good  to  have  lookt  on 
her ;  by  this  light,  shee  had  a  face  mee-thinks 
worth  twenty  of  you,  Mistresse  Annabella.         105 

Do.  Was  ever  such  a  foole  borne? 

Anna,  I  am  glad  shee  lik't  you,  sir. 

Ber.  Are  you  so  ?  By  my  troth,  I  thanke  you, 
forsooth. 

Flo.  Sure,  'twas  the  doctors  neece,  that  wasi'io 
last  day  with  us  here. 

Ber.  'Twas  shee  !   *Twas  shee  ! 

Do.   How  doe  you  know  that,  simplicity  ? 

Ber.   Why  doe's  not  hee  say  so?   If  I  should 
have  sayd  no,  I  should  have  given  him  the  lye,  115 
unkle,  and  so  have  deservM  a  dry  beating  again  : 
rie  none  of  that. 

Flo.  A  very  modest  welbehav'd  young  maide 
As  I  have  seene. 

Do,  Is  shee  indeed  ? 

Flo.  Indeed 

Shee  is,  if  I  have  any  judgement.  120 

Do.  Well,  sir,  now  you  are  free ;  you  need 
not  care  for  sending  letters.  Now  you  are  dis- 
mist ;  your  mistresse  here  will  none  of  you. 

Ber.  No  !   why  what  care  I  for  that  ?   I  can 
have  wenches  enough  in  Parma  forhalfeacrownei25 
a  peece  —  cannot  I,  Poggio? 

1 1 8-9  A  "very  .  .  .  ha-ve  seene.   Q  prints  on  one  line. 
H9-20  Indeed  ihee  is  .  .  ,  judgement.  G-D  prints  on  one  line. 
Qf  as  here. 


54  'tHi^^it^  [Act  II. 

Pog.  rie  warrant  you,  sir. 

Do.  Signior  Florio, 
I  thanke  you  for  your  free  recourse  you  gave 
For  my  admittance;  and  to  you,  faire  maide,      130 
That  Jewell  I   will  give  you  'gainst  your  mar- 
riage. 
Come,  will  you  goe,  sir? 

Ber.  I,  marry,  will  I.  Mistres,  farwell,  mis- 
tres ;  Tie  come  againe  to  morrow— farwell, 
mistres.  Exit  Do.,  Ber.  &'  Pog.  135 

Enter  Gio. 

Flo.  Sonne,  where  have   you  beene  ?   What, 
alone,  alone,  still,  still  ? 
I  would  not  have  it  so;  you  must  forsake 
This  over  bookish  humour.   Well,  your  sister 
Hath  shooke  the  foole  off. 

Giovanni.  'Twas  no  match  for  her. 

Flo.  'Twas  not   indeed ;   I  ment   it  nothing 

lesse ;  140 

Soranzo  is  the  man  I  onely  like. 
Looke  on  him,  Annabella.  —  Come, 'tis  supper- 
time. 
And  it  growes  late.  Exit  Florio. 

Gio.   Whose  Jewell's  that  ? 

Anna.   Some  sweet-hearts. 

Gio.  So  I  thinke. 

128-32  Q  prints  as  prose. 

136-9   Sonne  .  .  .    off.    Q  prints  as  prose. 

136  still.   G-D  omits  second  uill. 


scENiVL]  '^i&^it^  55 

Anna.  A  lusty  youth,  145 

Signior  Donado,  gave  it  me  to  weare 
Against  my  marriage. 

Gio.  But  you  shall  not  weare  it ; 

Send  it  him  backe  againe. 

Anna.  What,  you  are  jealous  ? 

Gio.  That  you   shall   know  anon,  at  better 
leasure. 
Welcome  sweete  night !   the  evening  crownes 

the  day.  Exeunt.  150 

145-8  A  lusty  .  ,  .  gave  it  me.  Q  prints  as  one  line;  to  iveare 
.  .  .  marriage f  the  nextj  l>ut  you  .  .  .  againe y  the  next;  What 
.  .  .  jealous  ?y  the  laat. 


ACTUS   TERTIUS. 

[SCENA  PRIMA.  A  room  in  Donado's  house.'] 

Enter  Bergetto  and  Poggio. 

Bergetto.  Do'es  my  unkle  thinke  to  make  mee 
a  baby  still  ?  No,  Poggio,  he  shall  know  I  have 
a  skonce  now. 

Poggio.  I,  let  him  not  bobbe  you  ofF  like  an 
ape  with  an  apple.  5 

Ber.  *Sfoot,  I  will  have  the  wench,  if  he  were 
tenne  unkles,  in  despight  of  his  nose,  Poggio. 

Pog.  Hold  him  to  the  grynd-stone,  and  give 
not  a  jot  of  ground  ;  shee  hath  in  a  manner  pro- 
mised you  already.  lo 

[jS^r.]  True,  Poggio,  and  her  unkle,  the  doc- 
tor, swore  I  should  marry  her. 

Pog,   He  swore,  I  remember. 

Ber.  And  I  will  have  her,  that's  more.  Did*st 
see  the  codpeice-poynt  she  gave  me,  and  the  is 
box  of  mermalade  ? 

Pog.  Very  well ;  and  kist  you,  that  my  chopps 
watred  at  the  sight  on't.  There's  no  way  but  to 
clap  up  a  marriage  in  hugger  mugger. 

Ber.   I   will   do't;  for  I    tell  thee,   Poggio,  I  ao 
ii-iz   True  .  .  .  her.  Q  gives  this  to  Poggio. 


Scene!.]  'tClfi?  Ptt^  .57 

begin  to  grow  valiant,  methinkes,  and  my  cour- 
age begins  to  rise. 

Pog.   Should  you  be  afraid  of  your  unkle  ? 

Ber.  Hang  him,  old  doating  rascall !  no,  I  say 
I  will  have  her.  25 

Pog.  Lose  no  time,  then. 

Ber.  I  will  beget  a  race  of  wise  men  and  con- 
stables that  shall  cart  whoores  at  their  owne 
charges ;  and  breake  the  dukes  peace  ere  I  have 
done  my  selfe.   Come  away.  Exeunt.   30 

[SCENA   SECUNDA.   Jroomin  Florio'shouse.] 

Enter  FloriOy  Giovanniy  Soranzo,  Annabelldy   Putana 
and  Vasques. 

Florio.    My  Lord  Soranzo,  though  I  must  con- 

fesse 
The  proffers  that  are  made  me  have  beene  great 
In  marriage  of  my  daughter,  yet  the  hope 
Of  your  still  rising  honours  have  prevaild 
Above  all  other  joynctures:  here  shee  is;  5 

She  knowes  my  minde ;  speake  for  your  selfe  to 

her. 
And  heare  you,  daughter,  see  you  use  him  nobly. 
For  any  private  speech  I'le  give  you  time. 
Come,  Sonne, and  you  the  rest;  let  them  alone; 
Agree  as  they  may. 

10  Agree.  G-D  inserts  a  second  they  after  agree. 


58  '®i0  Pit^  [Act  III. 

Soranzo,  I  thanke  you,  sir.  lo 

Giovanni  \aside  to   J?tna\.  Sister,  be  not   all 

woeman  ;  thinke  on  me. 
Soran.   Vasques  ! 
Vasques.  My  lord. 

Soran.  Attend  me  without. 

Exeunt  orriTies  ;  majiet  Soran.  i^  Anna. 
Annahella.   Sir,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 
Soran.  Doe  you  not  know 

What  I  should  tell  you? 

Anna.  Yes,  you'le  say  you  love  mee. 

Soran.   And   I'le  swearc  it  too ;   will  you  be- 

leeve  it?  15 

Anna.  'Tis  not  poynt  of  faith. 
Enter  Giovanni  above. 
Soran.  Have  you  not  will  to  love  ? 

Anna.  Not  you. 
Soran.  Whom  then  ? 

Anna.  That's  as  the  fates  inferre. 

Gio.  \aside^.  Of  those  I'me  regient  now. 
Soran.  What  meane  you,  sweete  ? 

Anna.   To  live  and  dye  a  maide. 
Soran.  Oh,  that's  unfit. 

Gio.  \asidt'\.   Here's  one  can  say  that's  but  a 

womans  noate.  20 

Soran.   Did  you  but  see  pny  heart,  then  would 

you  sweare  — 

1*^-14   Doe  .  .  .  tell  you?  Q  prints  as  one  line. 
1 6  '  Tis  not.   G— D,  '  Tis  no. 


IS 


Scene  II.]  '^10  ^ft^  59 

Anna.  That  you  were  dead  ! 

Gio.    ^as'ide]^ .  That's    true,  or  somewhat 

neere  it. 

Soran.   See  you  these  true  loves  teares  ? 

Anna,  No. 

Gio,    \_asidf^  .  Now  shee  winkes. 

Soran,  They  plead  to  you  for  grace. 

Anna.  Yet  nothing  speake. 

Soran.  Oh,  grant  my  suite. 

Anna.  What  is  't  ? 

Soran.  To  let  mee  live  — 

Anna.  Take  it. 

Soran.  Still  yours. 

Anna,  That  is  not  mine  to  give. 

Gio.    [aside\ .   One  such  another  word  would 
kil  his  hopes. 

Soran.   Mistres,  to  leave  those  fruitlesse  strifes 
of  wit, 
I  knowl  have  lovMyou  long,and  lov'dyoutruely: 
Not  hope  of  what  you  have,  but  what  you  are,    30 
Have  drawne  me  on  ;  then  let  mee  not  in  vaine 
Still  feele  the  rigour  of  your  chast  disdaine. 
I'me  sicke,  and  sicke  to  th'  heart. 

Anna.  Helpe  !   aquavitae  ! 

Soran.   What  meane  you  ? 

Anna.  Why,   I    thought   you   had   beene 

sicke. 

29   Iknozu.   G-D,  omits  I.  31   Have.   G-D,  hath. 


6o  'tETiS?  pit]?  [Act  IH. 

Soran.   Doe  you  mocke  my  love  ? 

G'lo.    [c/j/VA-] .  There,   sir,  shee   was    too 

nimble.  nc 

Soran.    [^/jr/VA*] .   'Tis  plaine  ;   shee  laughes  at 
mc.  —  These  scornefull  taunts 
Neither  become  your  modesty  or  yeares. 

Anna.  You  are  no  looking-glasse ;  or  if  you 
were, 
rde  dresse  my  language  by  you. 

Gin.    [/^/5/VA].  Tme  confirmed. 

Anna.   To    put  you    out   of  doubt,  my  lord, 

mee-thinks  40 

Your  common   sence   should   make  you  under- 
stand 
That  if  I  lovM  you,  or  desir'd  your  love. 
Some  way  I  should  have  given  you  better  tast: 
But  since  you  are  a  noble  man,  and  one 
I   would   not   wish   should    spend  his  youth    in 

hopes,  ^5 

Let  mee  advise  you  here  to  forbeare  your  suite, 
And  thinke  I  wish  you  well,  i  tell  you  this. 
Soran.  Is't  you  speake  this  ? 
Anna.  Yes,  I  my  selfe;  yet  know, — 

Thus  farre  I  give  you   comfort,  —  if  mine  eyes 
Could  have  pickt  out  a  man,  amongst  all  those    50 
That  sue'd  to  mee,  to  make  a  husband  of, 

36-47   '  Tii  plaint  .    .    .    tell  you  t/iis.     Q  prints  as  prose. 
46  /lere.     G-D  omits  here. 


Scene  11.)  '©10  |Dit^  6 1 

You  should  have  bcenc  that  man:  let  this  suffice. 
Be  noble  in  your  secresie  and  wise. 

Gio.    ^aside\.  Why,  now  I  see  shee  loves  me. 

Anna.  One  word  more. 

As  ever  vertue  liv*d  within  your  mind,  55 

As  ever  noble  courses  were  your  guide. 
As  ever  you  would   have  me  know  you  lov'd 

me. 
Let  not  my  father  know  hereof  by  you  : 
If  I  hereafter  finde  that  I  must  marry, 
It  shall  be  you  or  none. 

Soran.  I  take  that  promise.  6o 

Anna.   Oh,  oh,  my  head  ! 

Soran.   What's  the  matter  ?  not  well  ? 

Anna.  Oh,  I  begin  to  sicken ! 

Gio.    \as'tde\ .  Heaven  forbid  ! 

Exit  from  above, 

Soran.   Helpe,  helpe,  within  there,  ho  ! 
Looke  to  your  daughter,  Signior  Florio.  65 

[^Re-^ftitcr  Florio y  Giovanni ^  Putana. 

Flo.   Hold  her  up ;  shee  sounes. 

Gio.  Sister,  how  d'ee  ? 

Anna.  Sicke,  brother,  are  you  there  ? 

Flo.   Convay  her  to  her  bed  instantly,  whil'st 
I  send  for  a  phisitian  ;  quickly,  I  say. 

Putana.  Alas,  poore  child  !  70 

Exeunt ;  manet  Soranzo. 

65   Looke   .    .   .   F/orio.     Q  gives  this  to  Giovanni. 


62  '®i0  pit^  (Act  HI. 

[^Re-'\gnur  Fasques, 

Vas.   My  lord. 

Soran.  Oh,  Vasques,  now  I  doubly  am  undone 
Both  in  my  present  and  my  future  hopes  : 
Shee  plainely  told  me  that  shee  could  not  love, 
And  thereupon  soone  sickned,  and  I  fear  75 

Her  life's  in  danger. 

Vas.  [aside] .  Byr  lady,  sir,  and  so  is  yours, 
if  you  knew  all. — 'Las,  sir,  I  am  sorry  for  that: 
may  bee  'tis  but  the  maides-sicknesse,  an  over- 
fluxe  of  youth ;  and  then,  sir,  there  is  no  such  80 
present  remedy  as  present  marriage.  But  hath 
shee  given  you  an  absolute  deniall  ? 

Soran.  She  hath  and  she  hath  not ;  I'me  full 
of  griefe ; 
But  what  she  sayd  Tie  tell  thee  as  we  goe. 


[SCENA  TERTIA.   J  room  in  Florins  house.] 

Eriter  Giovanni  and  Putana 
Putana.   Oh,   sir,   wee  are  all   undone,  quite 

undone,   utterly  undone,   and    sham'd  forever  ! 

Your  sister,  oh,  your  sister! 

Giovanni.  What  of  her  ?   For  heavens  sake, 

speake  ;  how  do'es  she  ? 

Put.  Oh,  that  ever  I   was  borne  to  see  this 

day  ! 


Scene  III.]  '®ifi[  |3it^  63 

Gio.  She  is  not  dead,  ha  ?  is  shee  ? 

Put.   Dead?   no,  shee  is   quicke;  'tis    worse, 
she  is  with  childe.  You   know   what  you  have  lo 
done;  heaven  forgive 'ee  !  *Tis  too  late  to  repent, 
now  heaven  helpe  us  ! 

Gio.   With  child  ?  how  dost  thou  know't  ? 

Put.  How  doe  I  know't !  am  I  at  these  yeeres 
ignorant  what  the  meaning's  of  quames  and  15 
waterpangs  be  ?  of  changing  of  colours,  quezi- 
nesse  of  stomacks,  pukings,  and  another  thing 
that  I  could  name  ?  Doe  not,  for  her  and  your 
credits  sake,  spend  the  time  in  asking  how,  and 
which  way,  'tis  so  :  shee  is  quick,  upon  my  20 
word  :  if  you  let  a  phisitian  see  her  water,  y'are 
undone. 

Gio.   But  in  what  case  is  shee  ? 

Put.  Prettily  amended :  'twas  but  a  fit,  which 
I   soone  espi'd,   and   she  must   looke  for  often  25 
hence-forward. 

Gio.  Commend   me  to  her,  bid  her  take  no 
care ; 
Let  not  the  doctor  visit  her,  I  charge  you : 
Make  some  excuse  till  I  returne.  —  Oh,  mee  ! 
I  have  a  world  of  businesse  in  my  head.—  30 

Doe  not  discomfort  her. 

12  G-D  puts  the  comma  after  now.     Q,  as  here. 
31-3   Doe  not  .  .  .  ivell.    Arrangement  of  G-D.    Q  makes  but 
two  lines,  beginning  the  second  with  If  my  father. 


64  '(ETiflf  pitV  (Act  III. 

How  doc  this  ncwcs  perplex  mee  !  — If  my  father 
Come  to  her,  tell  him  shee's  recover'd  well  ; 
Say  'twas  but  some  ill  tlyet ;  li'ee  heare,  woeman  ? 
Jvookc  you  to't.  35 

Put.   I  will  sir.  Exeunt. 


[SCENA  QUARTA.  J  room  in  Florios  house.'] 

Enter  F lor  to  and  Ricbardetto. 

Flor'io.   And  how  d'ce  finde  her,  sir? 

Riebardetto.  Indirterent  well; 

I  see  no  danger,  searse  perceive  shee's  sicke, 
l^ut  that  shee  told  mee  shce  had  lately  eaten 
Mellownes,  and,   as   shee  thought,    those    dis- 
agreed 
With  her  young  stomackc. 

Flo.  Did  you  give  her  ought  ?     5 

Rich.  An  easie  surfeit  water,  nothing  else. 
You  neede  not  doubt  her  health  :  I  rather  thinke 
Her  sicknesse  is  a  fulnesse  of  her  blood, — ■ 
You  understand  mee  ? 

Flo.  1  doe ;  you  counsell  well ; 

And  once,  within  these  few  dayes,  will  so  order't   10 
She  shall  be  married  ere  shee  know  the  time. 

Rich.  Yet  let  not  hast,  sir,  make  unworthy 
choice ; 
That  were  dishonour. 

Flo.  Maister  Doctor,  no  ; 


SCENK  IV.|  '^itf   PitP  65 

I  will  not  doc  so  neither:    in  plaine  words, 

My  Lord  Soran/o  is  the  man  1  nieane.  15 

Rich.   A  noble  and  a  vertuoiis  p;eiulenian. 

Flo.    As  atiy  is  in  Parma.   Not  farre  hence 
Dwels  Father  Honaventure,  a  grave  fryar, 
Once  tutor  to  my  soime  :   now  at  his  cell 
rie  have 'em  married. 

Rich.  You  have  plotted  wisely.   10 

Flo.   rie  send  one  straight  to  speake  with  him 
to  night. 

Rich,   Soranzo's  wise ;  he  will  delay  no  time. 

Flo.   It  shall  he  so. 

Enter  Frynr  and  Giovanni. 

FVyar.  Good  peace  be  here  and  love  ! 

Flo.   Welcome,  relligious  fryar ;  you  are  one 
That  still  bring  blessing  to  the  place  you  come 

to.  25 

Giovanni.   Sir,  with  what  speed  I  could,  I  did 
my  best 
To  draw  this  holy  man  from  forth  his  cell 
'I\)  visit  my  sicke  sister ;   that  with  words 
Of  ghostly  comfort  in  this  time  of  neede 
Hee    might   absolve    her,   whether    she   live    or 

die.  30 

Flo.  'Twas  well  done,  Ciiovanni ;  thou  herein 
Hast  shewed  a  Christians  care,  a  brothers  love. 
Come,  father,  I'le  conduct  you  to  her  chamber. 
And  one  thing  would  intreat  you. 


66  '®t0  pit^  lAcT  in. 

Fry.  Say  on,  sir. 

Flo.   I  have  a  f^ithcrs  deare  impression,  35 

And  wish  before  I  fall  into  my  grave 
That  I  might  see  her  married,  as  'tis  fit : 
A  word  from  you,  grave  man,  will  winne  her 

more 
Then  all  our  best  perswasions. 

Fry.  Gentle  sir, 

All  this  rie  say,  that  heaven  may  prosper  her.     40 

Exeunt, 


[SCENA    Q UINTA.    A  room  in  Richardetto' s 

house. 'J 

Efiter  Grmaldi. 
Grlmaldi.  Now  if  the  doctor  keepe  his  word, 
Soranzo, 
Twenty  to  one  you  misse  your  bride.   I  know 
'Tis  an  unnoble  act,  and  not  becomes 
A  souldiers  vallour ;   but  in  tcrmes  of  love. 
Where  merite  cannot  sway,  policy  must. 
I  am  resolv'd  ;   if  this  phisitian 
Play  not  on  both  hands,  then  Soranzo  falls. 
Enter  Richardettu. 
Richardetto.  You  are  come  as  I   could  wish; 
this  very  night 
Soranzo,  'tis  ordain'd,  must  bee  affied 

8-1 1    You  are  .    .   .   married.   Q  prints  as  prose. 


scENiv.)  '^isi^it^  67 

To  Annabclla,  and,  for  ought  I  know,  10 

Married. 

Gri.       How  ! 

Rich.  Yet  your  patience  :  — 

The  place,  'tis  Fryar  Bonaventures  cell. 
Now  I  would  wish  you  to  bestow  this  night 
In  watching  thereabouts ;  'tis  but  a  night : 
If  you  misse  now,  to  morrow  I'lc  know  all.  15 

Gri.   Have  you  the  poyson  ? 

Rich.  Here,  'tis  in  this  box  : 

Doubt  nothing,  this  will  doe't ;   in  any  case. 
As  you  respect  your  life,  be  quicke  and  sure. 

Gri.   I'le  speede  him. 

Rich.  Doe.  Away  !   for  'tis  not  safe 

You  should  be  scene  much  here.  Ever  my  love  !  io 

Gri.   And  mine  to  you.  Exit  Gri. 

Rich,  So  !  if  this  hitt,  I'le  laugh  and  hug  re- 
venge; 
And  they  that  now  dreame  of  a  wedding-feast 
May  chance  to   mourne  the   lusty  bridegromes 

ruine. 
But  to  my  other  businesse.   Neice  Philotis  !  ^5 

Enter  Philotis. 

Philotis,   Unkle. 

Rich.   My  lovely  neece. 
You  have  bethought  'ee  ? 

Phi.  Yes,  and,  as  you  counsel'd, 

12   Fryar.      <2,  Fryars. 


68  '®i0  pit^  [Act  in. 

Fashion'd  my  heart  to  love  him,  but  hee  sweares 
Hee  will  to  night  be  married;   for  he  feares  30 

His  unkle  else,  if  hee  should  know  the  drift, 
Will  hinder  all,  and  call  his  couze  to  shrift. 

Rich.  To  night  ?  why,  best  of  all ;  but  let  mee 
see — 
I  —  ha  !  —  yes,  —  so  it  shall  be  ;  in  disguise 
Wee'le  earely  to  the  fryars  ;  I  have  thought  on't.  35 
Enter  Bergetto  and  Poggio, 

Phi.  Unkle,  hee  comes. 

Rich.  Welcome,  my  worthy  couze. 

Bergetto.    Lasse,    pretty    lasse,    come    busse, 
lasse  !  Aha,  Poggio  ! 

^Rich.^   [aside'^  .  There's  hope  of  this  yet. 
You  shall  have  time  enough  ;  withdraw  a  little  ; 
Wee  must  conferre  at  large. 

Ber.   Have  you  not  sweete-meates  or  dainty 

devices  for  me  ?  40 

Phi.  You  shall  enough,  sweet-heart. 

Ber.  Sweet-heart !    marke  that,  Poggio.    By 
my  troth,  I  cannot  choose  but  kisse  thee  once 
more  for  that    word   "  sweet-heart."   Poggio,  I 
have  a  monstrous  swelling  about  my  stomacke,  45 
whatsoever  the  matter  be. 

Poggio.  You  shall  have  phisick  for't,  sir. 

Rich.  Time  runs  apace. 

Ber.  Time's  a  blockhead. 

38   Thtre's  ...  yet.   So  G-D.   Q  gives  this  to  Philotis. 


sciNE  vi.i  'tCfe  pit^  69 

Rich,  Be  rul'd  :  when  wee  have  done  what's 

fitt  to  doe,  50 

Then  you  may  kisse  your  fill,  and  bed  her  too. 

Exeunf. 

[SCENA    SEXTA.      Jnnabella's  chamber.'] 

Enter  the  fry  ar  sitting  in  a  chayre  ;  Annate  lla  kneel- 
ing and  whispering  to  him;  a  table  before  them  and 
wax-lights.    She  weepes  and  wrings  her  hands. 

Fryar.   I  am  glad  to  see  this   pennance ;   for, 

beleeve  me. 
You  have  unript  a  soule  so  foule  and  guilty. 
As,  I  must  tell  you  true,  I  marvaile  how 
The  earth  hath  borne  you  up  :  but  weepe,  weepe 

on  ; 
These  teares  may  doe  you  good ;  weepe  faster 

yet,  5 

Whiles  I  doe  reade  a  lecture. 

Annabella.  Wretched  creature ! 

Fry.   I,  you  are  wretched,  miserably  wretched, 

Almost  condemn'd  alive.  There  is  a  place, — 

List,  daughter,  —  in  a  blacke  and  hollow  vault. 

Where   day   is   never  seene ;    there   shines  no 

sunne,  10 

But  flaming  horrour  of  consuming  fires. 

Enter  the  fryar.    Q  adds  in  his  study  ;  thig  is  clearly  a  mistake 
and  is  corrected  in  G-D. 


70  '®iS;  pit^  [Act  III. 

A  lightlesse  suphure,  choakt  with  smoaky  foggs 
Of  an  infected  darknesse  ;  in  this  place 
Dwell  many  thousand  thousand  sundry  sorts 
Of  never  dying  deaths;  there  damned  soules        15 
Roare  without  pitty ;  there  are  gluttons  fedd 
With  toades  and  addars ;  there  is  burning  oyle 
Powr'd  downe  the  drunkards  throate  ;  the  usurer 
Is  forc't  to  supp  whole  draughts  of  molten  gold  ; 
There  is  the  murtherer  for-ever  stab'd,  20 

Yet  can  he  never  dve;  there  lies  the  wanton 
On  racks  of  burning  Steele,  whiles  in  his  soule 
Hee  feeles  the  torment  of  his  raging  lust. 
Anna.   Mercy  !   Oh,  mercy  ! 
Fry.  There  stands  these  wretched  things 

Who  have  dream't  out  whole  yeeres  in  lawlesse 

sheets  25 

And  secret  incests,  cursing  one  another ; 
Then  you  will  wish  each  kisse  your  brother  gave 
Had  been  a  daggers  poynt ;  then  you  shall  heare 
How  hee  will  cry,  "  Oh,  would  my  wicked  sister 
Had  first  beene  damn'd,  when  shee  did  yeeld  to 

lust !  "  — 
But  soft,  methinkes  I  see  repentance  worke 
New  motions  in  your  heart :  say,  how  is't  with 

you? 
Anna.  Is  there  no  way  left  to  redeeme  my 

miseries  ? 

24  stands.   G-D,  stand. 


30 


Scene  VL]  '^10  |Btt^  7 1 

Fry.   There  is,  despaire  not ;  heaven  is  merci- 
full 
And  offers  grace  even  now.  'Tis  thus  agreed  :      35 
First,  for  your  honours  safety  that  you  marry 
The  Lord  Soranzo ;  next,  to  save  your  soule, 
Leave  off  this  life,  and  henceforth  live  to  him. 

Anna.  Ay  mee  ! 

Fry.        Sigh  not ;  I  know  the  baytes  of  sinne 
Are  hard  to  leave  ;  oh,  'tis  a  death  to  doe't :  40 

Remember  what  must  come.  Are  you  content  ? 

Anna.   I  am. 

Fry,  I  like  it   well ;    wee'le   take   the 

time. — 
Who's  neere  us  there  ? 

Enter  Florioy  Giovanni. 

Florio.  Did  you  call,  father? 

Fry.  Is  Lord  Soranzo  come  ? 

Flo.  Hee  stayes  belowe. 

Fry.   Have  you  acquainted  him  at  full  ? 

Flo.  I  have,  45 

And  hee  is  over-joy'd. 

Fry.  And  so  are  wee. 

Bid  him  come  neere. 

Giovanni  \aside\ .      My  sister  weeping,  ha ! 
I  feare  this  fryars  falshood.  —  I  will  call  him. 

Exit. 

45-8   /  Aa've  .    .   .  ca//  him.   Q  prints  as  four  lines  ending  with 
.   .  .    over-joy^ J  .    ,   .    neere   .    .    .  fahhood  .    .    .   him. 


72  'tlTiO  pitV  [Act  III. 

Flo.   Daughter,  are  you  resolv'd  ? 

Anna.  P'athcr,  I  am. 

\R(-'\tntcr  Giovanni  \xvitU\  Soranzo  and  Vasques. 

Flo.   My  Lord  Soranzo,  here  5° 

Give  nice  your  hand;  for  that  I  give  you  this. 

Sordfixo.   Lady,  say  you  so  too  ? 

Jtnui.  I  doe,  and  vow 

To  live  with  you  and  yours. 

Fry.  Timely  resolv'd  : 

My  blessing  rest  on  both  !  More  to  be  done. 
You  may  pertorme  it  on  the  morning-sun.  55 

Exeunt. 

[SCKNA    SKPTIMA.    The  street  Wforc  the 
monasters^ 

Enter  GrimalJi  with  his  rapier  dra-zcfie  and  a  darke- 
lanthorne. 

Grimaldi.   'Tis  early  night  as  yet,  and  yet  too 

soone 
To  Hnish  such  a  worke ;  here  1  will  lye 
To  listen  who  comes  next.  Hee  lies  downe. 

Enter  Bergetto  and  Phi  lot  is  disgt/is\l ;  and,  after, 

Riehardetto  and  Poggio. 
Bergetto.   Wee  are  almost  at  the  place,  I  hope, 

sweet-heart. 
Gri.  [^/.f/V//] .   I   heare  them   neere,  and  heard 
one  say  "  sweet-heart."  5 

52-3    I  doe  .    .   ,    yours   ■    .    .    ^  prints  as  one  line. 


ScENr  VTT.j 


'^id;  pity 


73 


'Tis  lu'c  ;  now  |.nii(lc  my  hand,  some  :in}»;ry  justice, 
Home  to  liis  l)osomc  !    Now  have  at  you,  sir! 

Str  ikc\   lirr.  tt?t(l  exit. 

lin.  ( )h,  li(I|)(v,  hclpc  !  hciv's  a  slich  lalleri 
in  my  gutls.  Oh,  lor  a  llesh-tayh)r  (juickly  !  — 
Po^l'jo  '  ,o 

Philotis.    What  ayles  my  love? 

Ihr.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  |)issc  forward  and 
backward,  and  yet  I  am  wet  l)eroie  and  hehind. 
—  Lights!  h^hts  !  ho,  hj^hts  ! 

Phi.    Alas,  some  villaine   here    has    slaine  my 

love.  i^ 

Riclxu ilttto.    Oh,  heaven    forhid  it  '    Raise  up 
the  next  nei(.dd)oms 
Instantly,  Pog^io,  and  l)rin<',  liphts.    I'.xit  I'oy-yjo. 
How  is't,  Her^etto  P  slaine?    It  cannot   he; 
Are  you  sure  y'are  huit  ? 

Hir.    O,  my  belly  seeths    liki-  a  porridj^e-pot  !    lo 
Some   cold  water,    I  shall    hoyle    over    else:  \\\y 
whole  body  is  in    a   sweat,  that   y(>u    may  wrini^ 
my  shirt  \  f'eele  heic-        why,  l\)^j.»Jo  I 
I  Rf   \rntn   l*oyj\io  with  ofliicrs  tuiil  liyht'>  iind halhct  ts. 

Poyyu).    Here.    Alas,  how  doe  you  p 

/v/VA.    (Jive    me    a    li<.dit.     What's    here?    all 

blood  '    (  ),  sirs,  7.5 

Sij^'uior  Donado's  nephew  now  is  slaine. 
I'ollow  the  nuMtherer  with  all  the  haste 

iX     |i;     It  iiintidt    .    .    .    hurt.    ^  print!)  .i!i  one  line. 


74  '®ifif  Pit\^  [Act  m. 

Up  to  the  citty ;  hee  cannot  be  farre  hence : 
Follow,  I  beseech  you. 

Officers.  Follow,  follow,  follow  ! 

Exeunt  officers. 

Rich.  Teare  off  thy  linen,  couz,  to  stop  his 

wounds.  30 

Be  of  good  comfort,  man. 

Ber.  Is  all  this  mine  owne  blood  ?  Nay,  then, 
good-night  with  me.  Poggio,  cemmend  me  to 
my  unkle,  dost  heare  ?  Bid  him,  for  my  sake, 
make  much  of  this  wench.  —  Oh!  —  I  am  go-  35 
ing  the  wrong  way  sure,  my  belly  akes  so.  — 
Oh,  farwell,  Poggio  !  —Oh  !—  Oh  !  —      Dyes. 

Phi.   O,  hee  is  dead ! 

Pog.  How  !  dead  ! 

Rich.  Hee's  dead  indeed; 

*Tis  now  to  late  to  weepe:  let's  have  him  home. 
And  with  what   speed   we    may   iinde   out    the 

murtherer.  4° 

Pog.  Oh,my  maister!  mymaister!  mymaister! 

Exeutit. 

[SCENA    OCTAVA.    J  room  in  Hippolitas 
house.^ 

Enter  Vasques  and  Hippolita. 
Hippolita.   Betroath'd  ? 
Vasques.   I  saw  it. 
Hip.  And  when's  the  marriage-day  ? 


Scene  VUI.l  '^10  ^tt^  -     75 

Fas.  Some  two  dayes  hence. 

Hip.   Two  dayes  !   Why,  man,  1   would   but 
wish  two  houres 
To  send  him  to  his  last  and  lasting  sleepe;  5 

And,  Vasques,  thou  shalt  see  Fie  doe  it  bravely. 

Fas.   1   doe  not  doubt  your  wisedome,  nor,  I 
trust,  you  my  secresie ;  I  am  infinitely  yours. 

Hip.   I  wilbe  thine  in  spight  of  my  disgrace. — 
So  soone  ?   O  wicked  man,  I  durst  be  sworne       lo 
Hee'd  laugh  to  see  mee  weepe. 

Fas.   And  that's  a  villanous  fault  in  him. 

Hip.  No,  let  him  laugh  j  I'me  arm'd  in  my 
resolves. 
Be  thou  still  true. 

Fas.   I  should  get  little  by  treachery  against  so  15 
hopefull  a  preferment  as  I  am  like  to  climbe  to. 

Hip.   Even  to  my  bosome,  Vasques !   Let  my 
youth 
Revell  in  these  new  pleasures ;  if  wee  thrive, 
Hee  now  hath  but  a  paire  of  dayes  to  live.  Exeunt. 

[SCENA    NONA.     The  street  before  the  Car- 
dinal^ s  gates.^ 

Enter  Florioy  Don  ado  y  RichardettOy  Poggio  and  Officers. 
Florio.  'Tis  bootlesse  now  to  shew  your  selfe 
a  child, 
Signior  Donado;  what  is  done,  is  done: 
Spend  not  the  time  in  teares,  but  seeke  for  justice. 


76  'tlTifif  pit^  [Act  III. 

Richardetto.  I  must  confesse  somewhat  I  was 
in  fault 
That  had  not  first  acquainted  you  what  love  5 

Past  twixt  him  and  my  neece;  but,  as  I  live, 
His  fortune  grieves  me  as  it  were  mine  owne. 

Donado.   Ala[s],  poore  creature!  he  ment  no 
man  harme; 
That  I  am  sure  of. 

Flo.  I  beleeve  that  too. 

But  stay,  my  maisters,  are  you  sure  you  saw         10 
The  murtherer  passe  here  ? 

[//Vj/]  Officer.  And  it  please  you,  sir,  wee 
are  sure  wee  saw  a  ruffian  with  a  naked  weapon 
in  his  hand  all  bloody  get  into  my  Lord  Cardi- 
nals Graces  gate;  that  wee  are  sure  of;  but  for  15 
feare  of  his  grace,  bless  us,  we  durst  goe  no 
further. 

Do.   Know  you  what  manner  of  man  hee  was  ? 

\Second^    Officer.  Yes,  sure  I  know  the  man; 
they   say   a   is   a  souldier;  hee  that  lov'd  your  20 
daughter,  sir,  an't  please  y'ee  ;  'twas  hee  for  cer- 
taine. 

Flo.   Grimaldi,  on  my  life  ! 

\Second^    Officer.  I,  I,  the  same. 

Rich.  The  Cardinall  is  noble ;  he  no  doubt 
Will  give  true  justice. 

Do.  Knock,  some  one,  at  the  gate.  25 

PoggiQ.  rie  knocke,  sir.  Poggio  knocks. 


Scene  IX.]  '^{g  J^Jt^  yy 

Servant  {within^.   What  would  'ee  ? 

Flo.   Wee  require  speech  with  the  Lord  Car- 
dinall 
About  some  present  businesse:  pray  informe 
His  grace  that  we  are  here.  30 

Enter  Cardinall  and  Grimaldi. 

Cardinal.     Why,  how  now,   friends  !    What 
sawcy  mates  are  you 
That  know  nor  duty  nor  civillity  ? 
Are  we  a  person  fit  to  be  your  hoast, 
Or  is  our  house  become  your  common  inne, 
To  beate  our  dores  at  pleasure  ?   What  such  haste  35 
Is  yours  as  that  it  cannot  waite  fit  times  ? 
Are  you  the  maisters  of  this  common-wealth, 
And  know  no  more  discretion  ?   Oh,  your  newes 
Is  here  before  you  ;  you  have  lost  a  nephew, 
Donado,  last  night  by  Grimaldi  slaine :  40 

Is  that  your  businesse  ?   Well,  sir,  we  have  know- 
ledge on't ; 
Let  that  suffice. 

Grimaldi.  In  presence  of  your  grace. 

In  thought  I  never  ment  Bergetto  harme ; 
But,  Florio,  you  can  tell  with  how  much  scorne 
Soranzo,  backt  with  his  confederates,  45 

Hath  often  wrong'd  mee;  I  to  be  reveng'd, — 
For  that  I  could  not  win  him  else  to  fight, — 
Had  thought  by  way  of  ambush  to  have  kild  him, 
But  was  unluckely  therein  mistooke; 


78  '®i0  |i)it^  [Act  ni. 

Else  hee  had  felt  what  late  Bergetto  did  :  50 

And  though  my  fault  to  him  were  meerely  chance. 
Yet  humbly  I  submit  me  to  your  grace, 
To  doe  with  mee  as  you  please. 

Car.  Rise  up,  Grimaldi. 

You  cittizens  of  Parma,  if  you  seeke 
For  justice,  know,  as  nuntio  from  the  Pope,  55 

For  this  offence  I  here  receive  Grimaldi 
Into  his  holinesse  protection. 
Hee  is  no  common  man,  but  nobly  borne. 
Of  princes  blood,  though  you.  Sir  Florio, 
Thought   him   to   meane   a   husband    for  your 

daughter.  60 

If  more  you  seeke  for,  you  must  goe  to  Rome, 
For  hee  shall  thither :  learne  more  wit,  for  shame. 
Bury  your  dead. — Away,  Grimaldi ;  leave  'em. 

Ex,  Car.  ^  Gri. 

Do.  Is  this    a    church-mans  voyce  ?    Dwels 
justice  here  ? 

Flo.  Justice  is  fledd  to  heaven,  and  comes  no 
neerer.  65 

Soranzo  !   Was't  for  him  ?   O,  impudence  ! 
Had  he  the  face  to  speake  it,  and  not  blush  ? 
Come,  come,  Donado,  there's  no  helpe  in  this, 
When  cardinals  thinke  murder's  not  amisse. 
Great  men  may  do  there  wills,  we  must  obey ;     70 
But  heaven  will  judge  them  for't  another  day. 

Exeunt. 


ACTUS  QUARTUS. 

[SCENA   PRIMA.    A  room  in  Florio's  house.] 
A  banquet.    Hoboyes. 

Enter  the  Fryar,  Giovanniy  A?inabellay  PhilotiSy  Sor- 
anzo,  Do7iadoy  FloriOy  RichardettOy  Putana  and 
Vasques. 

Fryar.  These  holy  rights  perform'd,  now  take 
your  times 
To  spend  the  remnant  of  the  day  in  feast : 
Such  fit  repasts  are  pleasing  to  the  saints 
Who  are  your  guests,  though  not  with   mortal] 

eyes 
To  be  beheld.   Long  prosper  in  this  day,  5 

You  happy  couple,  to  each  others  joy  ! 

Soranxo.   Father,   your   prayer   is    heard ;   the 
hand  of  goodnesse 
Hath  beene  a  sheild  for  me  against  my  death ; 
And,  more  to  blesse  me,  hath  enricht  my  life 
With  this  most  precious  Jewell ;  such  a  prize        10 
As  earth  hath  not  another  like  to  this. 
Cheere  up,  my  love  ;  and,  gentlemen  my  friends, 
Rejoyce  with  mee  in  mirth :  this  day  wee'le  crowne 
With  lusty  cups  to  Annabella's  health. 

Giovanni  {aside).   Oh,  torture!  were  the  mar- 
riage yet  undone,  15 


80  '®i0|aitp  [Act  IV. 

Ere  Fde  endure  this  sight,  to  see  my  love 
Clipt  by  another,  I  would  dare  confusion, 
And  stand  the  horrour  of  ten  thousand  deaths. 

Vasques.   Are  you  not  well,  sir  ? 

Gio.  Prethee,  fellow,  wayte ; 

I  neede  not  thy  officious  diligence.  20 

Florio.  Signior  Donado,come,  you  must  forget 
Your  late  mishaps,  and  drowne  your  cares  in 
wine. 

Soran.   Vasques ! 

Vas.  My  lord. 

Soran.  Reach  me  that  weighty  bowle. 

Here,  brother  Giovanni,  here's  to  you  ; 
Your  turne  comes  next,  though  now  a  batche- 

lour;  25 

Here's  to  your  sisters  happinesse  and  mine  ! 

Gio.   I  cannot  drinke. 

Soran.  What! 

Gio.  'Twill  indeede  offend  me. 

Annahella.  Pray,  doe  not  urge  him,  if  hee  be 
not  willing. 

Flo.   How  now  !  what  noyse  is  this  ? 

Vas.   O,  sir,  I  had  forgot  to  tell  you ;  certaine  30 
young  maidens  of  Parma,  in  honour  to  Madam 
Annabella's  marriage,  have  sent  their  loves  to 

29   Hoiv  .  .  .  this  ?    G-D  inserts  the  stage  direction  Hautboyi 
before  this  line. 

31  young.      Q,  youg. 


Scene!.]  '©10  JSlt^  8 1 

her  in  a  masque,  for  which  they  humbly  crave 
your  patience  and  silence. 

Soran.    Wee  are   much  bound  to  them;   so 
much  the  more  35 

As  it  comes  unexpected  :  guide  them  in. 

Hoboyes. 

Enter  Hippolita  and  Ladies  in  white  roubes  with  gar- 
lands of  willowes. 

Musicke  and  a  Daunce. 
Soran.  Thanks,  lovely  virgins  !  now  might  wee 
but  know 
To  whom  wee  have  beene  beholding  for  this 

love. 
We  shall  acknowledge  it. 

Hippolita.  Yes,  you  shall  know. 

[  Unmasks. '^ 
What  thinke  you  now  ? 

Omnes.  Hippolita ! 

Hip.  *Tis  shee;     40 

Bee  not  amaz'd;  nor  blush  young  lovely  bride; 
I  come  not  to  defraud  you  of  your  man : 
'Tis  now  no  time  to  reckon  up  the  talke 
What  Parma  long  hath  rumour'd  of  us  both : 
Let  rash  report  run  on;  the  breath  that  vents  it  45 

35-6    Wee  .   .   .   in.   Q  prints  as  prose. 

38  t^is.  So  G-D  ;  so  copy  in  British  Museum  and  copy  in  Bos- 
ton Public  Library,  Dyce's  copy  had  t/iy  ;  so  copy  in  library  of  the 
University  of  Illinois. 


Si  '(Tlfi  pitV  (Act  IV. 

Will,  like  a  bubble,  brcakc  it  sclfe  at  last. 

But  now  to  vou,  sweet  creature;  —  lend's  your 

hand  -,  — 
Perhaps  it  hath  beenc  said  that  I  would  claime 
Some  interest  in  Soran/.o,  now  vour  lord ; 
What  I  have  right  to  doc  his  soule  knowes  best:   50 
Hut  in  niv  duty  to  vour  noble  worth, 
Sweete  Annabella,  and  niv  care  of  vou. 
Here  take,  Soran/.o,  take  this  hand  from  me; 
rie  once  more  iovne  what  bv  tlie  holv  Church 
Is  tinish't  and  allow'd.    Have  1  done  well  ?  55 

Sonin,   You  have  too  much  ingag'd  us. 

Hip.  One  thing  more, 

That  you  may  know  my  single  charity, 
Freely  I  here  remit  all  interest 
I  ere  could  clayme,  and  give  you   backe  your 

vowes  ; 
And  to  conlirm't,  —  reach  me  a  cup  of  wine, —  60 
My  Lord  Soranzo,  in  this  draught  I  drinke 
Long  rest  t'ec  ! — yjside  to  J'asqucs.^   Looke   to 
it,  X'asques. 

J 'tis.   Fear  nothing. 

He  gives  her  a  poysond  cup  ;  she  drinks. 

Sorari.  Hippolita,  1  thankc  you,  and  will  pledge 
This  happy  union  as  another  life.  —  65 

Wine,  there  ! 

Vas.  You  shall  have  none;  neither  shall  you 
pledge  her. 


////».   How' 

f^as.    Know   now,  mistrcssc  shcc  rJcviJl,  your 
ownc   nnischicvous   treachery   hath   kild  youj   1   70 
must  not  marry  you. 

Hip.   Villaine! 

Omnes.    What's  the  matter? 

l^as.   Foolish    woeman,  thou   art   now   like   a 
fire-brand  that  hath  kindled  others  and  burnt  thy   75 
selfe  :  —  Troppo  sperar^  inganna^  —  thy  vaine  hope 
hath   deceived  thee;   thou  art  but  dead;    if  thou 
hast  any  grace,  pray. 

Hip.    Monster  ! 

Vas.  Dye   in   charity,  for  shame.    This  thing  g© 
of  malice,  this  woman,  had  privately  corrupted 
mee  with  promise  of  malice,  under  this  politique 
reconciliation  to    poyson    my  lord,  whiles  shee 
might  laugh  at  his  confusion  on  his  marriage  day, 
I  promis'd  herfaire,  but  J  knew  what  my  reward   85 
should   have    beene,   and    would  willingly   have 
spar'd  her  life,  but   that   I  was  acquainted  with 
the   danger   of  her  disposition  ;   and   now   have 
fitted   her  a  just    payment    in    her  owne  coyne: 
there  shee  is,  shee  hath  yet  —  and  end  thy  dayes  90 
in    peace,  vild  woman;   as   for  life,   there's  no 
hope  ;  thinke  not  on't. 

Omnes.   Wonderfull  justice ! 

76   injranna.    So  O-D.  Q,  niganna. 

8z  malice.   Changed  in  G-D  to  marriage. 


84  '(ElO  PttV  [Act  IV. 

Ruhiirdttto.    Heaven,  thou  art  righteous. 
Hip.  C),  'tis  true; 

I  tVcle  tiiv  minute  comming;.    Had  that  shive         95 
Kept    promise,        C\  mv    tiM'nient, —  thou    this 

houre 
Had'st  dved,  Soranzo  ;  —  heate  aboN  e  hell  tire  !  — 
^'et  ere  I  passe  away, — cruell,cruell  flames, — 
Take  here  mv  curse  amongst  vou  ;  may  thv  hed 
C^t  marriaL:;e  be  a  racke  unto  thv  heart,  100 

Hurne  blood  and   bovle   in  vengeance  —  C),  my 

heart, 
Mv  flame's  intolerable!  —  maist  thou  live 
To  t'ather  bastards;  mav  her  wombe  bring  forth 
Monsters;  and  dve  together  in  vour  sinnes. 
Hated,  scorn'd  and  unpittied  —  Oh  !  —  Oh  !      105 

Dyes. 
Flo.   Was  e're  so  vild  a  creature  ? 
Rich.  Here's  the  end 

Of  lust  and  pride. 

Jnna,  It  is  a  fearefull  sight. 

Soran.   Vasques,  I    know   thee   now   a   trusty 

servant, 

And  never  will    forget   thee.  —  Come,  my  love, 

Wee'le  home,  and  thanke   the   heavens  for  this 

escape.  no 

Father   and    friends,  wee    must  breake   up  this  . 

mirth ;  || 

It  is  too  sad  a  feast. 


Ihnado.  licarc  hence  the  body. 

Fry.     \aiid(;    to    Cjio.\.     f fere's    an    ominous 
charjge  ! 
Marke  this,  my  Giovani,  arirl  take  heed' 
]  feare  the  event;  that  niarriagc  seldome's  goodi»5 
Where  the  bride-banquet  so  begins  in  blood. 

Exeunt, 

[SCKNA    SPXUNDA.    /I  rwrn  in  Richar- 
detto^s  house. ^ 

Enter  Richardetto  and  Phi/otis. 
Richardetto.    My  wretched  wife,  more  wretch- 
ed in  her  shame 
Then  in  h(;r  wrf>ngs  to  me,  hath  paid  too  sof^ne 
The  forfeit  of  her  modesty  and  life. 
And    J   am    sure,  my   neece,  though    vengeance 

hover, 
Keeping  aloofe  yet  from  Soranzo's  fall,  5 

Yet    hec  will    fall,  and    sinke    with    his    owne 

weight. 
I  ncinl  not  —  n(;w  my  heart  perswades  me  so  — 
To  further  his  ccmfusion  ;  there  is  one 
Above  begins  to  worke  :    for,  as  I  heare. 
Debate's  already  twixt  his  wife  and  him  10 

2  hath.  Q  in  Boston  Pulilic  Library  misprinr*  a  sccon'l  hathioX- 
lowing  t}iiis  J   tijc-  copy  at  the  University  of  Illinois  haa  only  one. 

7  noiu.  G-V)  puts  the  (lash  after  novu.  (.)  \>r\nli  no-w  .  .  .  lo  in 
parcnthcBCB. 


86  '^i&^it^  [Act  IV. 

Thicken  and  run  to  head ;  shee,  as  *tis  sayd, 
Sleightens  his  love,  and  he  abandons  hers : 
Much  talke  I  heare.    Since  things  goe  thus,  my 

neece. 
In  tender  love  and  pitty  of  your  youth, 
My  counsell  is,  that  you  should  free  your  yeeres  15 
From  hazard  of  these  woes  by  flying  hence 
To  faire  Cremona,  there  to  vow  your  soule 
In  holinesse  a  holy  votaresse  : 
Leave  me  to  see  the  end  of  these  extreames. 
All  humane  worldly  courses  are  uneven  ;  20 

No  life  is  blessed  but  the  way  to  heaven. 
Philotis.   Unkle,  shall  I  resolve  to  be  a  nun  ? 
Rich.  I,  gentle  neece,  and  in  your  hourely 

prayers 
Remember  me,  your  poore  unhappy  unkle. 
Hie  to  Cremona  now,  as  fortune  leades,  25 

Your  home  your  cloyster,  your  best  friends  your 

beades. 
Your  chast  and  single  life  shall  crowne  your 

birth ; 
Who  dyes  a  virgine,  live  a  saint  on  earth. 
Phi.    Then     farwell,     world,     and     worldly 

thoughts,  adeiu ! 
Welcome,  chast  vowes;  myselfe  I  yeeld  to  you.  30 

Exeunt. 

28  linje.   G-D,  live[s]. 


Scene  III.)  '®t5  |0tt^  ,87 


[SCENA   TERTIA.    A  chamber  in  Soranxo's 
house, "^ 

Enter  Soranzo  unbrac^t^  and  Annabel/a  drag^  d  in. 
Soranzo.   Come,   strumpet,   famous   whoore ! 

were  every  drop 
Of  blood  that  runs  in  thy  adulterous  veynes 
A  life,  this  sword — dost  see't? — should  in  one 

blowe 
Confound  them  all.   Harlot,  rare,  notable  harlot, 
That  with  thy  brazen  face  maintainst  thy  sinne,       5 
Was  there  no  man  in  Parma  to  be  bawd 
To  your  loose  cunning  whoredome  else  but  I? 
Must  your  hot  ytch  and  plurisie  of  lust, 
The  heyday  of  your  luxury,  be  fedd 
Up  to  a  surfeite,  and  could  none  but  I  10 

Be  pickt  out  to  be  cloake  to  your  close  tricks, 
Your  belly-sports  ?   Now  I  must  be  the  dad 
To  all  that  gallymaufrey  that's  stuft 
In  thy  corrupted  bastard-bearing  wombe  ! 
Say,  must  I  ? 

Annabella.   Beastly  man,  why  'tis  thy  fate.        15 
I  sued  not  to  thee ;  for,  but  that  I  thought 
Your  over-loving  lordship  would  have  runne 
Madd  on  denyall,  had  yee  lent  me  time, 
I  would  have  told  'ee  in  what  case  I  was : 
But  you  would  needes  be  doing. 


88  '®i0jBit^  [Act  IV. 

Soran.  Whore  of  whores  !  20 

Dar'st  thou  tell  mee  this  ? 

Jnna.  O,  yes  ;  why  not  ? 

You  were  deceivM  in  mee;  'twas  not  for  love 
I  chose  you, but  for  honour:  yet  know  this. 
Would  you  be  patient  yet,  and  hide  your  shame, 
rde  see  whether  I  could  love  you. 

Soran.  Excellent  queane  !  as 

Why  art  thou  not  with  child  ? 

Anna,  What  needs  all  this. 

When  'tis  superfluous  ?  I  confesse  I  am. 

Soran,  Tell  mee  by  whome. 

Anna.        Soft,  sir !  'twas  not  in  my  bargaine. 
Yet  somewhat,  sir,  to  stay  your  longing  stom- 

acke, 
I'me  content  t'acquaint  you  with  :  The  man,       30 
The  more  then  man, that  got  this  sprightly  boy, — 
For  'tis  a  boy,  that  for  glory,  sir. 
Your  heyre  shalbe  a  sonne  — 

Soran.  Damnable  monster! 

Anna.  Nay,  and  you  will  not  heare,  I'le  speake 
no  more. 

Soran.  Yes,  speake,  and  speake  thy  last. 

Anna.  A  match,  a  match  ! —  35 

This  noble  creature  was  in  every  part 

28  sir.   G-D  omits.  30  Tme.  G-D,  I  am. 

32  that  for  glory  ^  sir.   G-D  accepts  the  correction  of  Dodslcy, 
reading  [<?»</]  therefore  glory ^  sir. 


Scene  Ul.]  'tKtfi?  ^it^  .  89 

So  angell-like,  so  glorious,  that  a  woeman 
Who  had  not  beene  but  human,  as  was  I, 
Would  have  kneel'd  to  him,  and  have  beg'd  for 

love.  — 
You !  why  you  are  not  worthy  once  to  name        40 
His  name  without  true  worship,  or,  indeede, 
Unlesse   you  kneel'd,  to  heare  another    name 
him. 

Soran.  What  was  hee  cal'd  ? 

Anna.  Wee  are  not  come  to  that ; 

Let  it  suffice  that  you  shall  have  the  glory 
To  father  what  so  brave  a  father  got.  45 

In  briefe,  had  not  this  chance  falne  out  as't  doth, 
I  never  had  beene  troubled  with  a  thought 
That   you   had   beene    a    creature :  —  but    for 

marriage, 
I  scarce  dreame  yet  of  that. 

Soran.  Tell  me  his  name. 

Anna.    Alas,  alas,  there's  all !   Will  you  be- 
leeve  ?  50 

Soran,   What  ? 

Anna.  You  shall  never  know. 

Soran,  How  ! 

Anna.  Never. 

If  you  doe,  let  mee  be  curst. 

Soran,  Not  know  it,  strumpet!   I'le  ripp  up 
thy  heart. 
And  finde  it  there. 


90  '®t0  pit^  [Act  IV. 

Anna,  Doe,  doe  ! 

Soran.  And  with  my  teeth 

Teare  the  prodigious  leacher  joynt  by  joynt.         55 

Anna.   Ha,  ha,  ha  !  the  man's  merry. 

Soran.  Do'st  thou  laugh  ? 

Come,  whore,  tell  mee  your  lover,  or,  by  truth 
rie  hew  thy  flesh  to  shreds  ;  who  is't  ? 

Anna.    Che   morte  \_piu\   dolce    che   morire   per 
amore?  ,  (^Sings. 

Soran.  Thus  will  I  pull  thy  hayre,  and  thus 

rie  drag  60 

Thy  lust  be-leapred  body  through  the  dust. 
Yet  tell  his  name. 

Anna.   Morendo  in  gra  [zj  ia  \dee~\  morire  senza 
dolor  e.  (  Si  figs. 

Soran.   Dost  thou  triumph  ?  The  treasure  of 
the  earth 
Shall  not  redeeme  thee ;  were  there  kneeling  kings     ^ 
Did  begge  thy  life,  or  angells  did  come  downe 
To  plead  in  teares,  yet  should  not  all  prevayle 
Against  my  rage  :  do'st  thou  not  tremble  yet  ? 

Anna.   At   what  ?   to    dye  ?  No,  be  a  gallant 
hang-man ; 
I  dare  thee  to  the  worst :  strike,  and  strike  home.  ^° 
[I]  leave  revenge  behind,  and  thou  shalt  feel't. 

59    [/■'«]•      Qj />/«"•  ei  grazia.    Q,  gratia. 

63  \dee.^  Q,  Lei.  These  corrections  of  the  Italian  follow  G-D. 
Weber  printed  the  line  thus  J  Morendo  in  gratia  Dei  morire  senza 
do/ore. 


Scene  III.J  '®ifif  Ptt^  91 

Soran.  Yet  tell  mee  ere  thou  dyest,  and  tell  mee 
truely, 
Knowes  thy  old  father  this  ? 

Anna.  No,  by  my  life. 

Soran.  Wilt  thou  confesse,  and   I    will  spare 
thy  life  ? 

Anna,  My  life  ?  I  will  not  buy  my  life  so  deare.  75 

Soran.   I  will  not  slacke  my  vengeance. 
Enter  Vasques. 

Vasques.  What  d'ee  meane,  sir  ? 

Soran.   Forbeare,    Vasques  ;   such   a   damned 
whore 
Deserves  no  pitty. 

Vas.  Now  the  gods  forefend  ! 

And  wud  you  be  her  executioner,  and  kill  her 
in  your  rage,  too  ?  O,  'twere  most  un-manlike.  80 
Shee  is  your  wife  :  what  faults  hath  beene  done 
by  her  before  she  married  you,  were  not  against 
you.  Alas,  poore  lady,  what  hath  shee  com- 
mitted which  any  lady  in  Italy  in  the  like  case 
would  not  ?  Sir,  you  must  be  ruled  by  your  85 
reason,  and  not  by  your  fury  ;  that  were  unhu- 
mane  and  beastly. 

Soran.   Shee  shall  not  live. 

Vas.   Come,  shee  must.   You  would  have  her 
confesse  the  authors  of  her  present  misfortunes,  90 

79  ivud.   G-D,  would. 

90  authors.  So  Q  and  G.    D  changes  to  author. 


92  'GTi^jait^  lAcTiv. 

I  warrant 'ee;  'tis  an  unconscionable  demand, 
and  shee  should  loose  the  estimation  that  I,  for 
my  part,  hold  of  her  worth,  if  shee  had  done  it. 
Why,  sir,  you  ought  not  of  all  men  living  to 
know  it.  Good  sir,  bee  reconciled.  Alas,  good  95 
gentlewoman.  . 

Anna.  Pish,  doe  not  beg  for  mee  j  I  prize  my 
life 
As  nothing.  If  the  man  will  needs  bee  madd, 
Why  let  him  take  it. 

Soran.  Vasques,  hear'st  thou  this  ? 

Fas.  Yes,  and  commend  her  for  it;  in  thisioo 
shee  shews  the  noblenesse  of  a  gallant  spirit,  and 
beshrew  my   heart,  but  it  becomes  her  rarely. — 
\^Jside  to  Soran.^   Sir,  in  any  case  smother  your 
revenge ;  leave  the  senting  out  your  wrongs  to 
mee:  bee  rurd,as  you  respect    [y]our  honour,  105 
or  you  marr  all.  —  [Jloud.~\   Sir,  if  ever  my  ser- 
vice were  of  any  credit  with  you,  be  not  so  vio- 
lent in  your  distractions  :  you  are  married  now, 
what  a  tryumph  might  the  report  of  this  give  to 
other  neglected  sutors!  'Tis  as  manlike  to  beareno 
extremities  as  godlike  to  forgive. 

Soran.  O,  Vasques,  Vasques,  in  this  peece  of 
flesh. 
This  faithlesse  face  of  hers,  had  I  layd  up 

104  senting  out.      G-D,  scenting-out. 

105  [_y]  our.     Q,  hour. 


Scene  III.)  '^10  ^it^  93 

The  treasure  of  my  heart !  —  Hadst  thou  beene 

vertuous, 
Faire  wicked  woeman,  not  the  matchlesse  joyesii5 
Of  life  it  selfe  had  made  mee  wish  to  live 
With  any  saint  but  thee  :  deceitfull  creature, 
How  hast  thou  mock*t  my  hopes,  and  in   the 

shame 
Of  thy  lewd  wombe  even  buried  mee  alive ! 
I  did  too  dearely  love  thee.  120 

Vas.  {aside).  This  is  well ;  follow  this  temper 
with  some  passion  :  bee  briefe  and  moving  ;  'tis 
for  the  purpose. 

Soran.   Be  witnesse   to  my  words  thy  soule 

and  thoughts. 
And  tell  mee,  didst  not  thinke  that  in  my  heart  125 
I  did  too  superstitiously  adore  thee  ? 

Anna.  I  must  confesse  I  know  you  lovM  mee 

well. 
Soran.  And  wouldst  thou  use  mee  thus  ?    O 

Annabella, 
Bee  thus  assur'd,  whatsoe're  the  villaine  was 
That  thus  hath  tempted  thee  to  this  disgrace,     130 
Well  hee  might  lust,  but  never  lov'd  like  mee  : 
Hee  doated  on  the  picture  that  hung  out 
Upon  thy  cheekes  to  please  his  humourous  eye; 

121-3    This  is  .    .    .  purpose.      Q  prints  as  verse. 
129   Bee   thus    assured,    luhatsoe're.     G-D,    Be   thou   assur'd, 
whoe'er. 


94  '^ii>^it\!  lAcTiv. 

Not  on  the  part  I  lov'd,  which  was  thy  heart, 
And,  as  1  thought,  thy  vertues. 

Anna.  O,  my  lord  !      135 

These   words    wound    deeper  then   your  sword 
could  do. 

Vas.  Let  mee  not  ever  take  comfort,  but  I 
begin  to  weepe  my  selfe,  so  much  I  pitty  him  : 
why,  madam,  I  knew  when  his  rage  was  over- 
past, what  it  would  come  to.  140 

Soran.   Forgive   mee,  Annabella  ;   though  thy 
youth 
Hath  tempted  thee  above  thy  strength  to  folly, 
Yet  will  not  I  forget  what  I  should  bee. 
And  what  I  am  —  a  husband;  in  that  name 
Is  hid  devinity :  if  I  doe  finde  145 

That  thou  wilt  yet  be  true,  here  I  remit 
All  former  faults,  and  take  thee  to  my  bosome. 

Vas.   By  my  troth,  and  that's  a  poynt  of  noble 
charity. 

Anna.  Sir,  on  my  knees  — 

Soran.  Rise  up,  you  shall  not  kneele. 

Get   you  to  your  chamber;   see  you   make  no 

shew  150 

Of  alteration  ;  He  be  with  you  streight. 
My  reason  tells  mee  now  that  "77j  as  common 
To  erre  in  frailty  as  to  bee  a  woeman. 
Goe  to  your  chamber.  Exit  Anna. 

Vas.  So!  this  was  somewhat   to  the  matter.  155 


Scene  III.)  '^10  ^it^  95 

What  doe  you  thinke  of  your  heaven  of  happi- 
nesse  now,  sir  ? 

Soran.   I  carry  hell  about  mee ;  all    my  blood 
Is  firM  in  swift  revenge. 

Fas.  That  may  bee,  but  know  you  how,  or  160 
on  whom  ?  Alas,  to  marry  a  great  woeman,  be- 
ing made  great  in  the  stocke  to  your  hand,  is  a 
usuall  sport  in  these  dayes  ;  but  to  know  what 
secret  it  was  that  haunted  your  cunny-berry, — 
there's  the  cunning.  165 

Soran.   I'le  make  her  tell  her  selfe,  or  — 

Vas.  Or  what  ?  —  You  must  not  doe  so  ;  let 
me  yet  perswade  your  sufferance  a  little  while. 
Goe  to  her  ;  use  her  mildly  ;  winne  her,  if  it  be 
possible,  to  a  voluntary,  to  a  weeping  tune  :  for  170 
the  rest,  if  all  hitt,  I  will  not  misse  my  marke. 
Pray,  sir,  goe  in.  The  next  news  I  tell  you 
shall  be  wonders. 

Soran.   Delay   in   vengeance  gives  a  heavyer 
blow.  Exit. 

Fas.  Ah,  sirrah,  here's  worke  for  the  nonce  !  175 
I  had  a  suspicion  of  a  bad  matter  in  my  head  a 
pretty  whiles  agoe  ;  but  after  my  madams  scurvy 
lookes  here  at  home,  her  waspish  perversnesse 
and  loud  fault-finding,  then  I   remembred  the 

160  you.  Q,  yoo. 

164  secret.      G-D  accepts  Dodsley's  emendation,  ferret. 
haunted.    G— D,  hunted. 


96  '©10  Pit^  (Act  IV. 

proverbe,  that  "  where  hens  crowe,  and  cocks  180 
hold  their  peace,  there  are  sorry  houses."  Sfoot ! 
if  the  lower  parts  of  a  shee-taylors  cunning  can 
cover  such  a  swelling  in  the  stomacke,  Tie  never 
blame  a  false  stich  in  a  shoe  whiles  I  live  againe. 
Up,  and  up  so  quicke  ?  and  so  quickly  too?  185 
'Twere  a  fine  policy  to  learne  by  whom  this 
must  be  knowne ;  and  I  have  thought  on*t  — 

Enter  Putana. 
Here's  the  way,  or  none. —  What,  crying,  old 
mistresse  !   Alas,  alas,  1  cannot  blame  'ee ;  wee 
have  a  lord,  heaven  helpe  us,  is  so  madde  as  the  190 
devill  himselfe,  the  more  shame  for  him. 

Putayia.  O,  Vasques,  that  ever  1  was  borne  to 
see  this  day  !  Doth  hee  use  thee  so  too  some- 
times, Vasques  ? 

Vas,  Mee  ?  Why  hee  makes  a  dogge  of  mee ;  195 
but  if  some  were  of  my  minde,  I  know  what 
wee  would  doe.  As  sure  as  I  am  an  honest  man, 
hee  will  goe  neere  to  kill  my  lady  with  unkind- 
nesse.  Say  shee  be  with-child,  is  that  such  a 
matter  for  a  young  woeman  of  her  yeeres  to  be 200 
blam'd  for  ? 

Put.  Alas,  good  heart,  it  is  against  her  will 
full  sore. 

Vas.  I  durst  be  sworne  all  his  madnesse  is  for 

186   ivhom.     G-D  prints  a  colon  at'tt-r  this. 
Enttr  Putana.   J2  prints  after  ihame  for  htm. 


scKNic  ui.j  '^iflf  pit^  97 

that  slice  will  not  coiifcssc  whose  'tis,  which  lu'cio"; 
will  know  ;  and  when  he  cloth  know  it,  I  am  so 
well  aecjuainted  with  his  hinnour,  that  hee  will 
forget  all  strei^ht.  Well,  1  could  wish  shee 
would  in  |)laine  tcrmcs  tell  all,  tor  that's  the 
way,  indeed.  210 

Put.    Doe  you  thinke  so  ? 

l^as.    !*'(),  I  know't;  provided  that  hce  did  not 
winne  her   to't    by   force.    Hee   was  once   in   a 
mind  that  you  could  tell,  and  ment  to  have  wrung 
it  out  of  you  i   hut  1  somewhat  pacified  him  for2i5 
that:  yet  sure  you  know  a  great  deale. 

Put.   Heaven  forgive  us  all  !    I  know  a  little, 
Vascjues. 

1^(15.    Why  should  you  not  ?  Who  else  should  ? 
Upon  my  conscience,  shee  loves  you  dearely,  andaio 
you  would   not   betray  her  to  any  afHiction  for 
the  world. 

Put.    Not  for   all    the  world,  by  my  faith  and 
troth,  Vascpies. 

I'^as.   '  Twere  j^itty  of  your  life  if  you  should  ;22^ 
but  in  this  you  should    both  releive  her  present 
discomforts,  pacific  my  lord, and  gaine  your  selfe 
everlasting  love  and  preferment. 

Put.    Do'st  thinke  so,  Vascjues  ? 

ras.   Nay,  I  know't;  sure  'twas  some  neerezs© 
and  entire  friend. 

Put.   'I'was  a  deare  friend  indeed ;  but  — 


98  '®i0  Pit^  (Act  IV. 

Vas.  But  what  ?  Feare  not  to  name  him  ;  my 
life  betweene  you  and  clanger;  faith,  I  thinke 
'twas  no  base  fellow.  235 

Put.  Thou  wilt  stand  betweene  mee  and 
harme  ? 

Vas.  Ud's  pitty,  what  else  ?  You  shalbe  re- 
warded, too ;  trust  me. 

Put.  'Twas  even  no  worse  then  her  owne24o 
brother. 

Fas.   Her  brother  Giovanni,  I  warrant'ee ! 

Put.   Even  hee,  Vasques;   as  brave  a  gentle 
men  as  ever  kist  faire  lady.   O,  they  love  most 
perpetually.  245 

Vas.  A  brave  gentleman  indeed !  Why 
therein  I  commend  her  choyce.  —  [Jside.]  Bet- 
ter and  better.  —  You  are  sure  'twas  hee  ? 

Put.  Sure  J  and  you  shall  see  hee  will  not  be 
long  from  her  too.  250 

Vas.  He  were  to  blame  if  he  would  :  but  may 
I  beleeve  thee  ? 

Put.  Beleeve  mee  !  Why  do'st  thinke  I  am 
a  Turke  or  a  Jew  ?  No,  Vasques,  I  have  knowne 
their  dealings  too  long  to  belye  them  now.  155 

Vas.  Where  are  you  ?  there  within,  sirs ! 
Enter  Bandetti. 

Put.   How  now  !   What  are  these  ? 

Vas.  You  shall  know  presently. —  Come,  sirs, 

256   Where  are  you  f  So  Q.  G-D  puts  the  interrogation  mark 
after  there. 


Scene  III.]  '®ifif  ^it^  99 

take  mee  this  old  damnable  hagge,  gag  her  in- 
stantly, and  put  out  her  eyes,  quickly,  quickly  liBo 

Put,  Vasques  !   Vasques  ! 

Fas,  Gag  her,  I  say ;  sfoot,  d'ee  suffer  her  to 
prate  ?   What  d'ee  fumble  about  ?   Let  mee  come 
to  her.   rie  helpe  your  old  gums,  you  toad-bellied 
bitch  !    Sirs,  carry   her  closely  into  the  coale-265 
house,  and  put  out  her  eyes  instantly ;    if  shee 
roares,  slitt  her  nose.   D'ee  heare,bee  speedy  and 
sure.    [Exeunt  Ban.]  with  Putana,  Why  this  is 
excellent   and    above    expectation !     Her   owne 
brother  ?   O,  horrible  !  to  what  a  height  of  liberty  270 
in  damnation   hath   the  devill  trayn'd   our  age! 
her  brother,  well!  there's   yet  but  a  beginning; 
I  must  to  my  lord,  and  tutor  him  better  in  his 
points  of  vengeance.    Now  I  see  how  a  smooth 
tale  goes   beyond  a  smooth  tayle.  —  But    soft !  275 
what  thing  comes  next  ? 

Enter  Giovanni. 
Giovanni !    as    I  would   wish :    my  beleefe    is 
strengthned  ;  'tis  as  firme  as  winter  and  summer. 

Giovanni.   Where's  my  sister  ? 

Vas.  Troubled  with  a  new  sicknes,  my  lord ;  280 
she's  somewhat  ill. 

Gio,  Tooke  too  much  of  the  flesh,  I  beleeve. 

Vas.  Troth,  sir,  and  you,  I  thinke,  have  e'ne 
hitt  it;  but  my  vertuous  lady  — 

268    [Exeunt  Ban.']   So  G-D.    Q  has  Exit  with  Putana. 


100  '(E^iS  ptt\»  (Act  IV. 

Gio.   Where's  shee  ?  2S5 

J'as.  In  her  chamber;  please  vou  visit  her; 
she  is  alone.  \^Gio.  gives  him  money.^  Your  liber- 
ality hath  doublv  made  me  your  servant,  and 
ever  shall,  ever.  Exit  Gio. 

{^Rt'-]  enter  Sorr^nzo. 
Sir,  I   am   made  a   man;   I  have   plved   mv  cue 290 
with  cunning  and  successe.   I  beseech  vou  let's 
be  private. 

Sonjri.  My  ladyes  brother's  come  j  now  hee'le 
know  all. 

J'i2s.   Let  him  know't ;   I  have  made  some  o^  295 
them  fast  enouo;h.    How  have  vou  delt  with  my 
lady? 

Soran.   Gently,  as  thou  hast  counsail'd ;  O, 
my  soule 
Runs  circular  in  sorrow  for  revenge : 
But,  Vasques,  thou  shalt  know  —  300 

Vas.  Nav,  I  will  know  no  more ;  for  now 
comes  your  turne  to  know  :  I  would  not  talke  so 
openly  with  vou.  —  [./.f/Vf.]  Let  my  young  mais- 
ter  take  time  enough,  and  goe  at  pleasure  ;  hee 
is  sold  to  death,  and  the  devill  shall  not  ransome305 
him.  —  Sir,  I  beseech  you,  your  privacy. 

Soran.  No  conquest  can  gayne  glory  of  my 
feare.  [ExruNt.'] 

l^Exeunt].    Q,  exit. 


ACTUS   QUINTUS. 

[SCENA    PRIMA.     The  street  before  Soranzo's 

house.^ 

Enter  Annabella  above. 
Annabella.     Pleasures,    farwell,    and    all    yee 
thriftlesse  minutes 
Wherein  false  joyes  have  spun  a  weary  life  ! 
To  these  my  fortunes  now  I  take  my  leave. 
Thou  precious  Time  that  swiftly  rid'st  in  poast 
Over  the  world  to  finish  up  the  race  5 

Of  my  last  fate,  here  stay  thy  restlesse  course, 
And  beare  to  ages  that  are  yet  unborne 
A  wretched,  woefull  woemans  tragedy  ! 
My  conscience  now  stands  up  against  my  lust 
With  dispositions  charectred  in  guilt,  10 

Enter  Fryar  [belozv^  . 
And  tells  mee  I  am  lost :  now  I  confesse. 
Beauty  that  cloathes  the  out-side  of  the  face 
Is  cursed  if  tt  be  not  cloath* d  with  grace. 
Here  like  a  turtle  mew'd  up  in  a  cage, 
Un-mated,  I  converse  with  ayre  and  walls,  15 

And  descant  on  my  vild  unhappinesse. 
O,  Giovanni,  that  hast  had  the  spoyle 
Of  thine  owne  vertues  and  my  modest  fame, 

lo  dispositions.   G-D,  depositions. 


102  '^10  pit^  [ActV. 

Would  thou  hadst  beene  lesse  subject  to  those 

stars 
That  luckelesse  raign'd  at  my  nativity  !  20 

0  would  the  scourge  due  to  my  blacke  ofFence 
Might  passe  from  thee,  that  I  alone  might  feele 
The  torment  of  an  uncontrouled  flame  ! 

Fryar,  \aside\ .   What's  this  I  heare  ? 

Anna.  That  man,  that  blessed  fryar, 

Who  joynd  in  ceremoniall  knot  my  hand  25 

To  him  whose  wife  I  now  am,  told  mee  oft 

1  troad  the  path  to  death,  and  shewed  mee  how. 
But  they  who  sleepe  in  lethargies  of  lust 

Hugge  their  confusion^  making  heaven  unjust ; 
And  so  did  I. 

Fry.  \_aside~\.       Here's  musicke  to  the  soule!  30 

Anna.  Forgive   mee,  my  good    Genius,  and 
this  once 
Be  helpfuU  to  my  ends  :  let  some  good  man 
Passe  this  way,  to  whose  trust  I  may  commit 
This  paper  double  lin'd  with  teares  and  blood : 
Which  being  granted,  here  I  sadly  vow  ^5 

Repentance,  and  a  leaving  of  that  life 
I  long  have  dyed  in. 

Fry.  Lady,  heaven  hath  heard  you, 

And  hath  by  providence  ordain'd  that  I 
Should  be  his  minister  for  your  behoofe. 

Anna.   Ha,  what  are  you  ? 

Fry.  Your  brothers  friend,  the  Fryar;  40 


Scene  L]  '^10  Plt^  IO3 

Glad  in  my  soule  that  I  have  liv'd  to  heare 
This  free  confession  twixt  your  peace  and  you. 
What  would  you,  or  to  whom  ?    Feare  not   to 

speake. 
Anna.   Is  heaven  so  bountifull  ?  Then  I  have 

found 
More  favour  then  I  hop'd.   Here,  holy  man  :        45 

Throwes  a  letter. 
Commend  mee  to  my  brother;  give  him  that. 
That  letter ;  bid  him  read  it,  and  repent. 
Tell  him  that  I,  imprison'd  in  my  chamber, 
Bard  of  all  company,  even   of  my  guardian,  — 
Who  gives  me  cause  of  much  suspect, —  have 

time  50 

To  blush  at  what  hath  past;   bidd  him  be  wise. 
And  not  beleeve  the  friendship  of  my  lord : 
I   feare  much  more  then   I  can  speake :  good 

father. 
The  place  is  dangerous,  and  spyes  are  busie ; 
I  must  breake  off —  you'le  doe't  ? 

Fry.  Be  sure  I  will,  55 

And  fly  with  speede. —  My  blessing  ever  rest 
With    thee,  my   daughter;    live   to    dye    more 

blessed  !  Exit  Fry. 

Anna.   Thanks  to  the  heavens,  who  have  pro- 

long'd  my  breath 
To  this  good  use  !   Now  I  can  welcome  death. 

Exit, 


104  '®i0pit^  IActv. 


[SCENA    SECUNDA.     A  room  in   Soranzo's 
house. ^ 

Enter  Soranza  and  Vasques. 

Vasques.  Am  I  tobebeleev'd  now  ?  First  marry 
a  strumpet  that  cast  her  selfe  away  upon  you  but 
to  laugh  at  your  homes,  to  feast  on  your  dis- 
grace, riott  in  your  vexations,  cuckold  you  in 
your  bride-bed,  waste  your  estate  upon  panders  5 
and  bawds  — 

Soranzo.   No  more,  I  say,  no  more ! 

Vas,  A  cuckold  is  a  goodly  tame  beast,  my 
lord. 

Soran.     I    am    resolv'd ;     urge    not    another 

word  ;  lo 

My  thoughts  are  great,  and  all  as  resolute 
As  thunder.   In  meane  time  I'le  cause  our  lady 
To  decke  her  selfe  in  all  her  bridall  robes, 
Kisse  her,  and  fold  her  gently  in  my  armes. 
Begone, —  yet,  heare  you,  are  the  bandetti  ready    15 
To  waite  in  ambush  ? 

Vas,  Good  sir,  trouble  not  your  selfe  about 
other  busines  then  your  owne  resolution;  re- 
member that  time  lost  cannot  be  recal'd. 

Soran.  With  all  the  cunning  words  thou  canst, 

invite  20 

The  states  of  Parma  to  my  birth-dayes  feast. 


Scene  UL]  '©Ifif  J^lt^  IO5 

Haste  to  my  brother  rivall  and  his  father ; 
Entreate  them  gently,  bidd  them  not  to  fayle. 
Bee  speedy  and  returne. 

Fas.   Let  not  your  pitty  betray  you  till  my  com-  25 
ming  backe;  thinkeupon  incest  and  cuckoldry. 

Soran.    Revenge  is  all  the  ambition  I  aspire ; 
To  that  rie  clime  or  fall  j  my  blood's  on  fire. 

Exeunt. 


[SCENA   TERTIA.  J  room  in  Floras  house.] 
Enter  Giovanni. 
Giovanni.   Busie  opinion  is  an  idle  foole 
That,  as  a  schoole-rod,  keepes  a  child  in  awe, 
Frights  the  unexperienc't  temper  of  the  mind  : 
So  did  it  mee,  who,  ere  my  precious  sister 
Was  married,  thought  all  tast  of  love  would  dye     5 
In  such  a  contract ;  but  I  finde  no  change 
Of  pleasure  in  this  formall  law  of  sports. 
Shee  is  still  one  to  mee,  and  every  kisse 
As  sweet  and  as  delicious  as  the  first 
I  reap't,  when  yet  the  priviledge  of  youth  10 

Intitled  her  a  virgine.   O,  the  glory 
Of  two  united  hearts  like  hers  and  mine  ! 
Let  poaring  booke-men  dreame  of  other  worlds ; 
My  world  and  all  of  happinesse  is  here. 
And  I'de  not  change  it  for  the  best  to  come: —   15 
A  life  of  pleasure  is  Elyzeum. 


io6  't!ri0|Dit^  (Actv. 

Enter  Fryar. 
Father,  you  enter  on  the  jubile 
Of  my  retyr'd  delights  ;   now  I  can  tell  you 
The  hell  you  oft  have  prompted  is  nought  else 
But  slavish  and  fond  superstitious  feare;  20 

And  I  could  prove  it  too  — 

Fryar.  Thy  blindnesse  slayes  thee  : 

Looke  there,  'tis  writt  to  thee.      Gives  the  letter. 

G'lo.  From  whom  ? 

Fry.  Unrip  the  seales  and  see. 
The  blood's  yet  seething  hot  that  will  anon  25 

Be  frozen  harder  then  congeal'd  corrall. 
Why  d'ee  change  colour,  sonne? 

Gio.  Fore  heaven,  you  make 

Some  petty  devill  factor  'twixt  my  love 
And  your  relligion-masked  sorceries. 
Where  had  you  this? 

Fry.  Thy  conscience,  youth,  is  sear'd  ;  3° 

Else  thou  wouldst  stoope  to  warning. 

Gio.  'Tis  her  hand, 

I  know't ;  and  'tis  all  written  in  her  blood. 
She  writes  I  know  not  what.    Death  ?    I'le  not 

feare 
An  armed  thunder-bolt  aym'd  at  my  heart. 
Shce  writes  wee  are  discovered  —  pox  on  dreames  3  5 
Of  lowe  faint-hearted  cowardise !  — discovered  ? 
The  devill  wee  are  !  which  way  is't  possible? 
Are  wee  growne  traytours  to  our  owne  delights  ? 


Scene  IILJ  '^10  plt^  IO7 

Confusion  take  such  dotage  !  'tis  but  forg'd  ; 
This  is  your  peevish  chattering,  weake  old  man  !  40 

Enter  Vasques. 
Now,  sir,  what  newes  bring  you  ? 

Vasques.  My  lord,  according  to  his  yearely 
custome,  keeping  this  day  a  feast  in  honour  of 
his  birth-day,  by  mee  invites  you  thither.  Your 
worthy  father,  with  the  popes  reverend  nuntio,  45 
and  other  magnifico's  of  Parma,  have  promis'd 
their  presence;  wil't  please  you  to  be  of  the 
number  ? 

Gio.   Yes,  tell  them  I  dare  come. 

Vas.   Dare  come  ?  5° 

Glo.   So   I    sayd ;   and   tell   him   more,  I   will 
come. 

Vas.  These  words  are  strange  to  mee. 

Gio.   Say  I  will  come. 

Vas.   You  will  not  misse  ?  55 

Gio.  Yet  more !   Tie  come,  sir.   Are  you  an- 
swered \ 

Vas.  So  rie  say.  —  My  service  to  you. 

Exit  Vas. 

Fry.  You  will  not  goe,  I  trust. 

Gio.  Not  goe  ?  for  what  ? 

Fry.   O,  doe  not  goe ;  this  feast,  I'le  gage  my 
life. 

Enter  Va%que%.   Q  prints  this  below  the  question  following. 

49  them.    G-D,  him. 

56   (,)  has  a  semicolon  after  come  and  a  comma  after  ur. 


io8  '®i0  pit^  (ActV. 

Is  but  a  plot  to  trayne  you  to  your  mine.  60 

Be  rul'd,  you  sha'  not  goe. 

Gio.  Not  goe  !  stood  Death 

Threatning  his  armies  of  confounding  plagues 
With  hoasts  of  dangers  hot  as  blazing  starrs, 
I  would  be  there.   Not  goe  ?  yes,  and  resolve 
To  strike  as  deepe  in  slaughter  as  they  all;  65 

For  I  will  goe. 

Fry.  Go  where  thou  wilt :  I  see 

The  wildnesse  of  thy  fate  drawes  to  an  end, 
To  a  bad  fearefull  end.   I  must  not  stay 
To  know  thy  fall ;  backe  to  Bononia  I 
With  speed  will  haste,  and  shun  this  comming 

blowe.  70 

Parma,   farwell ;    would  I  have  never  knowne 

thee, 
Or  ought  of  thine !  Well,  young  man,  since  no 

prayer 
Can  make  thee  safe,  I  leave  thee  to  despayre. 

Exit  Fry. 
[G/<7.]  Despaire  or  tortures  of  a  thousand  hells, 
All's  one  to  mee;  I  have  set  up  my  rest.  75 

Now,  now,  worke  serious  thoughts  on  banefull 

.    plots ; 
Be  all  a  man,  my  soule ;  let  not  the  curse 
Of  old  prescription  rent  from  mee  the  gall 
Of  courage,  which  inrolls  a  glorious  death. 
If  I  must  totter  like  a  well-growne  oake,  80 


stcENiv.)  '^10  |Bit^  109 

Some  under  shrubs  shall  in  my  weighty  fall 
Be  crusht  to  splitts  j  with  me  they  all  shall  perish  ! 

Exit. 


[SCENA  QUARTA.  JhailmSoranzo'shouse.] 

Enter  Soranzo,  Basques  and  Bandetti, 

Soranxo.   You  will  not  fayle,  or  shrinke  in  the 
attempt  ? 

Vasques.  I  will  undertake  for  their  parts. — 
Be  sure,  my  maisters,  to  be  bloody  enough,  and 
as  unmercifull  as  if  you  were  praying  upon  a  5 
rich  booty  on  the  very  mountaines  of  Liguria. 
For  your  pardons  trust  to  my  lord  ;  but  for  re- 
ward you  shall  trust  none  but  your  owne  pockets. 

Bandetti  omnes.   Wee'le  make  a  murther. 

Soran.   Here's  gold;   here's   more;  want  no- 
thing. What  you  do  10 
Is  noble,  and  an  act  of  brave  revenge, 
rie  make  yee  rich,  bandetti,  and  all  free. 

Omnes.   Liberty  !   Liberty  ! 

Vas.  Hold;  take  every  man  a  vizard.  When 
yee  are  withdrawne,  keepe  as  much  silence  as  15 
you  can  possibly.  You  know  the  watch-word ; 
till  which  be  spoken,  move  not ;  but  when  you 
heare  that,  rush  in  like  a  stormy  flood  :  I  neede 
not  instruct  yee  in  your  owne  profession. 

Omnes.   No,  no,  no.  ao 


no  '®i0pit^  (ActV. 

Vas.  In,  then  :  your  ends  are  profit  and  pre- 
ferment :  away  !  Exeunt  Bandetti. 

Soran.  The  guests  will  all  come,  Vasques  ? 

Vas.  Yes,  sir.  And  now  let  me  a  little  edge 
your  resolution :  you  see  nothing  is  unready  to  25 
this  great  worke,  but  a  great  mind  in  you.  Call 
to  your  remembrance  your  disgraces,  your  losse 
of  honour,  Hippolita's  blood ;  and  arme  your 
courage  in  your  owne  wrongs  ;  so  shall  you  best 
right  those  wrongs  in  vengeance,  which  you  may  30 
truely  call  your  owne. 

Soran.  'Tis  well :  the  lesse  I  speake,  the  more 
I  burne. 
And  blood  shall  quench  that  flame. 

Vas.  Now  you  begin  to  turne  Italian.  This 
beside  :  —  when  my  young  incest-monger  comes,  35 
hee  wilbe  sharpe  set  on  his  old  bitt  :  give  him 
time  enough,  let  him  have  your  chamber  and 
bed  at  liberty ;  let  my  hot  hare  have  law  ere  he 
be  hunted  to  his  death,  that,  if  it  be  possible,  hee 
may  poast  to  hell  in  the  very  act  of  his  damnation.  40 

Soran.  It  shall  be  so ;  and  see,  as  wee  would 
wish, 
Hee  comes  himselfe  first. 

\^E'\nter  Giovanni. 
Welcome,  my  much-lov'd  brother: 

22   Exeunt.    Q,  Exit. 

[Einter  Gio-vanni.    (^  prints  in  somewhat  broken  type  in   the 
margin  at  the  left. 


Scene  IV.]  'tB^lfif  ^it^  I  I  I 

Now  I  perceive  you  honour  me ;  y*are  welcome. 
But  where's  my  father  ? 

Giovanni,  With  the  other  states, 

Attending  on  the  nuntio  of  the  pope,  45 

To  waite  upon  him  hither.   How's  my  sister? 

Soran.  Like  a  good  huswife,  scarcely  ready  yet; 
Y'are  best  walke  to  her  chamber. 

Gio.  If  you  will. 

Soran.   I  must  expect  my  honourable  friends ; 
Good  brother,  get  her  forth. 

Gio,  You  are  busie,  sir.  50 

Exit  Giovanni, 

Fas,   Even  as  the  great  devill  himselfe  would 
have  it !   Let  him  goe  and  glut  himselfe  in  his 
owne  destruction.   Harke,  the  nuntio  is  at  hand : 
good  sir,  be  ready  to  receive  him. 
[^fj/ourisb. 

Enter   Cardinally    Florio^    Donado,   Richardetto,    and 
Attendants. 

Soran.   Most  reverend  lord,  this  grace  hath 
made  me  proud,  55 

That  you  vouchsafe  my  house;  I  ever  rest 
Your  humble  servant  for  this  noble  favour. 

Cardinall.  You  are  our  friend,  my  lord :  his 
Holinesse 
Shall  understand  how  zealously  you  honour ' 
Saint  Peters  vicar  in  his  substitute:  60 

Our  speciall  love  to  you. 


112  '®i0  |Bit^  [Actv. 

Soran.  Signiors,  to  you 

My  welcome,  and  my  ever  best  of  thanks 
For  this  so  memorable  courtesie. 
Pleaseth  your  grace  to  walke  neere  ? 

Car.  My  lord,  wee  come 

To  celebrate  your  feast  with  civill  mirth,  65 

As  ancient  custome  teacheth  :  we  will  goe. 

Soran.  Attend  his  grace  there !  Signiors,  keepe 
your  way.  Exeunt. 


[SCENA    QUINTA.    Jnnabella's  chamber.'] 

Enter  Giovanni  and  Annabella  lying  on  a  bed. 
Giovanni.    What,  chang'd    so  soone !    Hath 
your  new  sprightly  lord 
Found  out  a  tricke  in  night-games  more  then 

wee 
Could  know  in  our  simplicity?   Ha!  is't  so? 
Or  does  the  fitt  come  on  you  to  prove  treacher- 
ous 
To  your  past  vowes  and  oathes  ? 

Annabella.  Why  should  you  jeast 

At  my  calamity,  without  all  sence 
Of  the  approaching  dangers  you  are  in  ? 

Gio.   What  danger's  halfe  so  great  as  thy  re- 
volt ? 
Thou  art  a  faithlesse  sister,  else  thou  know'st 

64  to.   G-D  omits. 


Scene  v.]  'tClfll  JBlt^  "3 

Malice  or  any  treachery  beside  lo 

Would  stoope  to  my  bent  browes :  why  I  hold 

fate 
Clasp't  in  my  fist,  and  could  command  the  course 
Of  times  eternall  motion,  hadst  thou  beene 
One  thought  more  steddy  then  an  ebbing  sea. 
And  what  ?   you'le   now  be   honest  —  that's  re- 

solv'd  ?  '5 

Jnna.   Brother,  deare  brother,  know  what  I 

have  beene. 
And  know  that  now  there  's  but  a  dyning  time 
Twixt  us  and  our  confusion  :  let's  not  waste 
These   precious  houres  in  vayne  and  uselesse 

speech. 
Alas,  these  gay  attyres  were  not  put  on  ao 

But  to  some  end;  this  suddaine  solemne  feast 
Was  not  ordayn'd  to  riott  in  expence ; 
I,  that  have  now  beene  chambred  here  alone, 
Bard  of  my  guardian  or  of  any  else. 
Am  not  for  nothing  at  an  instant  free'd  ^S 

To  fresh  accesse.   Be  not  deceiv'd,  my  brother, 
This  banquet  is  an  harbinger  of  death 
To  you  and  mee;  resolve  your  selfe  it  is, 
And  be  prepar'd  to  welcome  it. 

17  dyning  time.  G-D,  dining-time,  which  Dyce  says  is  the  read- 
ing of  his  quarto.  A  copy  in  the  British  Museum,  according  to  D, 
gives  dying  time.  The  copies  in  the  Boston  Public  Library  and  the 
library  of  the  University  of  Illinois  have  dyning. 


114  '®ifi^  |Bit^  [Actv. 

Gio.  Well,  then : 

The  schoole-men  teach  that  all  this  globe  of 

earth  3° 

Shalbe  consum'd  to  ashes  in  a  minute. 

Anna.  So  I  have  read  too. 

Gio.  But  'twere  somewhat  strange 

To  see  the  waters  burne :  could  I  beleeve 
This  might  be  true,  I  could  beleeve  as  well 
There  might  be  hell  or  heaven. 

Anna.  That's  most  certaine.  35 

Gio.  A  dreame,  a  dreame  !   else  in  this  other 
world 
Wee  should  know  one  another. 

Anna.  So  wee  shall. 

Gio.   Have  you  heard  so  ? 

Anna.  For  certaine. 

Gio.  But  d'ee  thinke 

That  I  shall  see   you   there? — You  looke   on 

mee  ? 
May  wee  kisse  one  another,  prate  or  laugh,  40 

Or  doe  as  wee  doe  here  ? 

Anna.  I  know  not  that. 

But  good,  for  the  present  what  d'ee  meane 
To  free  your  selfe  from  danger  ?  Some  way,  thinke 
How  to  escape :  I'me  sure  the  guests  are  come. 

38-41  But  d'ee  thinke  .  .  .  doe  here?  Q  breaks  this  up  into 
six  short  lines  ending  with  thinke  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  mee  .  .  .  an- 
other  .    .    .   laugh   .  .,  .    here. 

42  good.     G-D,  brother,  substituted  for  the  sake  of  the  metre. 


Scene  V.1  '^10  |Bit^  }^S 

Gio.  Looke  up,  looke  here ;  what  see  you  in 

my  face  ?  45 

Jnna.     Distraction    and   a   troubled  counte- 
nance. 
Gio,  Death   and  a  swift  repining  wrath :  — 
yet  looke  ; 
What  see  you  in  mine  eyes  ? 

Jnna.  Methinkes  you  weepe. 

Gio.  I   doe   indeed;   these   are    the    funerall 
teares 
Shed  on  your  grave;  these   furrowed   up    my 

cheekes  5® 

When  first  I  lovM  and  knew  not  how  to  woe. 
Faire  Annabella,  should  I  here  repeate 
The  story  of  my  life,  wee  might  loose  time. 
Be  record  all  the  spirits  of  the  ayre 
And  all  things  else  that  are,  that  day  and  night,  55 
Earely  and  late,  the  tribute  which  my  heart 
Hath  paid  to  Annabella's  sacred  love 
Hath  been  these  teares,  which  are  her  mourners 

now  ! 
Never  till  now  did  nature  doe  her  best 
To  shew  a  matchlesse  beauty  to  the  world,  6o 

Which  in  an  instant,  ere  it  scarse  was  scene. 
The  jealous  Destinies  require  againe. 

46  countenance.      G-D,  conscience,  Dodsley's  correction. 
5 1   ivoe.      G-D,  woo,  and  so  the  copy  at  the  University  of 
Illinois. 

6z  requite.      G-D,   required.     Dyce  says  in  a   note  that  the 


ii6  '31^10  pit^  [Actv. 

Pray,  Annabella,  pray  !  Since  wee  must  part, 
Goe  thou,  white  in  thy  soule,  to  fill  a  throne 
Of  innocence  and  sanctity  in  heaven.  5, 

Pray,  pray,  my  sister  ! 

Anna.  Then  I  see  your  drift  — 

Yee  blessed  angels,  guard  mee ! 

Gio.  So  say  I  ! 

Kisse  mee  !   If  ever  after  times  should  heare 
Of  our  fast-knit  affections,  though  perhaps 
The  lawes  of  conscience  and  of  civill  use  70 

May  justly  blame  us,  yet  when  they  but  know 
Our  loves,  that  love  will  wipe  away  that  rigour, 
Which  would  in  other  incests  bee  abhorr'd. 
Give    mee   your  hand  :   how  sweetely  life  doth 

runne 
In  these  well-coloured  veines  !   how  constantly     75 
These  palmes  doe  promise  health  !  But  I  could 

chide 
With  nature  for  this  cunning  flattery. 
Kisse  mee  againe  !  —  P'orgive  mee. 

Anna.  With  my  heart. 

Gio.  Farwell  ! 

Anna.  Will  you  begone  ? 

Gio.  Be  darke,  bright  sunne. 

And  make  this  mid-day  night,  that  thy  guilt  rayes  80 
May  not  behold  a  deed  will  turne  their  splendour 

quarto  has   require  j  the  quarto  at   the    University  of  Illinois  has 
require^  d. 


Scene  v.]  '^10  ^Itp  II7 

More  sooty  then  the  poets  faigne  their  Stix !  — 
One  other  kisse,  my  sister. 

Anna.  What  meanes  this  ? 

Gio.  To   save   thy  fame,  and   kill    thee   in  a 
kisse.  Stabs  her. 

Thus  dye,  and  dye  by  mee,  and  by  my  hand  !       85 
Revenge  is  mine  ;  honour  doth  love  command. 
Anna.   Oh,  brother,  by  your  hand  ! 
Gio.  When  thou  art  dead 

rie  give  my  reasons  for't ;  for  to  dispute 
With   thy — even   in  thy   death  —  most  lovely 

beauty 
Would  make  mee  stagger  to  performe  this  act      90 
Which  I  most  glory  in. 

Anna.    Forgive   him,   heaven — and    me    my 
sinnes  !    Farwell. 
Brother  unkind,  unkind  —  mercy,  great  heaven  ! 
_Oh!  — Oh!  Dyes. 

Gio,  She's  dead,  alas,  good  soule !    The  hap- 
lesse  fruite 
That  in  her  wombe  received  its  life  from  mee      95 
Hath  had  from  mee  a  cradle  and  a  grave. 
I  must  not  dally.   This  sad  marriage-bed 
In  all  her  best  bore  her  alive  and  dead. 
Soranzo,  thou  hast  mist  thy  ayme  in  this; 
I  have  prevented  now  thy  reaching  plots,  100 

And  kil'd  a  love  for  whose  each  drop  of  blood 
I  would  have  pawn'd  my  heart.  —  Fayre  Anna- 
bella. 


ii8  '®i0  |Dit^  IActv. 

How  over-glorious  art  thou  in  thy  wounds, 
Tryumphing  over  infamy  and  hate  !  — 
Shrinke  not,  couragious  hand ;  stand  up,  my  heart,  105 
And  boldly  act  my  last  and  greater  part  ! 

Exit  with  the  body. 

[SCENA  SEXTA.    A  banqueting  room  in   So- 
ran%6's  house.'] 

A  banquet. 

Enter  Cardinally  Florioy  Donadoy  Soranzo,  Richar- 
dettOy  VasqueSy  and  attendants  ;  they  take  their  places. 

Vasques  ^aside to  Soran^.  Remember, sir, what 
you  have  to  do  ;  be  wise  and  resolute. 

Soranxo  [aside  to  Fas.^ .  Enough  :  my  heart  is 
fix't.  —  Pleaseth  your  grace 
To  taste  these  course  confections ;  though  the 

use 
Of  such  set  enterteyments  more  consists  5 

In  custome  then  in  cause,  yet,  reverend  sir, 
I  am  still  made  your  servant  by  your  presence. 
Cardinal/.   And  wee  your  friend. 
Soran.   But  where's  my  brother  Giovanni  ? 
Enter  Giovanni  with  a  heart  upon  his  dagger » 
Giovanni.  Here,  here,  Soranzo!  trim'd  in  reek- 
ing blood  10 

4  course.      G— D,  coarse. 

5  enterteyments.      G-D,  entertainments. 


Scene  VI.]  ' tETtg  |0it^  II9 

That  tryumphs  over  death,  proud  in  the  spoyle 
Of  love  and  vengeance !   Fate,  or  all  the  powers 
That  guide  the  motions  of  immortall  soules. 
Could  not  prevent  mee. 

Car.   What  meanes  this  ?  15 

Florio,  Sonne  Giovanni ! 

Soran.  ^aside^.  Shall  I  be  forestall'd  ? 

Gio.  Be  not  amaz'd  :  if  your  misgiving  hearts 
Shrinke  at  an  idle  sight,  what  bloodlesse  feare 
Of  coward   passion    would   have    ceaz'd    your 

sences,  20 

Had  you  beheld  the  rape  of  life  and  beauty 
Which    I    have    acted !  —  My    sister,    oh,  my 
sister ! 

Flo.  Ha!  What  of  her? 

Gio.  The  glory  of  my  deed 

Darkned   the   mid-day    sunne,   made   noone   as 

night. 
You  came  to  feast,  my  lords,  with  dainty  fare  :  25 
I  came  to  feast  too,  but  I  dig'd  for  food 
In  a  much  richer  myne  then  gold  or  stone 
Of  any  value  ballanc't ;  'tis  a  heart, 
A  heart,  my  lords,  in  which  is  mine  intomb'd. 
Looke  well  upon't ;  d'ee  know't  ?  30 

Fas.   What  strange  ridle's  this  ? 

Gio.  'Tis  Annabella's   heart,  'tis ;  why  d'ee 
startle  ? 
I  vow  'tis  hers ;  this  daggers  poynt  plow'd  up 


I20  '21^10  Pit^  IActV. 

Her  fruitefull  wombe,  and  left  to  mee  the  fame 
Of  a  most  glorious  executioner.  35 

Flo.  Why,  mad-man,  art  thy  selfe  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  father,  and  that  times  to  come  may 
know 
How  as  my  fate  I  honoured  my  revenge. 
List,  father,  to  your  eares  I  will  yeeld  up 
How  much  I  have  deserv'd  to  bee  your  sonne.    40 

Flo.   What  is't  thou  say'st  ? 

Gio.        Nine  moones  have  had  their  changes 
Since  I  first  throughly  view'd  and  truely  lov*d 
Your  daughter  and  my  sister. 

Flo.  How  !  alas,  my  lords, 

Hee's  a  frantick  mad-man  ! 

Gio.  Father,  no. 

For  nine  moneths  space  in  secret  I  enjoy'd  45 

Sweete  Annabella's  sheetes  ;  nine  moneths  I  liv'd 
A  happy  monarch  of  her  heart  and  her.  — 
Soranzo,  thou  knows't  this :  thy  paler  cheeke 
Beares  the  confounding  print  of  thy  disgrace; 
For  her  too  fruitfull  wombe  too  soone  bewray'd   50 
The  happy  passage  of  our  stolne  delights, 
And  made  her  mother  to  a  child  unborne. 

Car.   Incestuous  villaine ! 

Flo.  Oh,  his  rage  belyes  him. 

Gio.   It  does  not ;  'tis  the  oracle  of  truth  j 
I  vow  it  is  so. 

43—4  Hoiv  !  .  .  .  mad-man  !    Q  prints  as  one  line. 


Scene  VI.J  'tEE^lg  JBlt^  121 

Soran.  I  shall  burst  with  fury.  —  55 

Bring  the  strumpet  forth  ! 

Vas,   I  shall,  sir.  Exit  l^as. 

Gio.  Doe,  sir.  —  Have  you  all  no  faith 

To  credit  yet  my  triumphs  ?    Here  I  sweare 
By  all  that  you  call  sacred,  by  the  love 
I  bore  my  Annabella  whil'st  she  liv'd,  60 

These   hands  have  from   her   bosome   ript  this 
heart. 

Enter  Vas. 
Is't  true,  or  no,  sir  ? 

Vas,  *Tis  most  strangely  true. 

Flo.   Cursed  man  !  —  have  I  liv'd  to  —    Dyes. 

Car.  Hold  up  Florio  ! 

Monster  of  children,  see  what  thou  hast  done  — 
Broake  thy  old  fathers  heart.  —  Is  none  of  you   65 
Dares  venter  on  him  ? 

Gio.  Let'em  !  Oh,  my  father. 

How  well  his  death  becomes  him  in  his  griefes ! 
Why  this  was  done    with   courage.   Now  sur- 
vives 
None  of  our  house  but  I,  guilt  in  the  blood 
Of  a  fayre  sister  and  a  haplesse  father.  70 

Soran.   Inhumane  scorne  of  men,  hast  thou  a 
thought 
T'out  live  thy  murthers  ? 

Gio.  Yes,  I  tell  thee,  yes : 

63   Hold  up  Florio.   G-D  puts  a  comma  before  Florio. 


122  '®i0  JDit^  [ActV. 

For  in  my  fists  I  beare  the  twists  of  life. 
Soranzo,  see  this  heart  which  was  thy  wives ; 
Thus  I  exchange  it  royally  for  thine,  ^Sial>s  him.']    75 
And  thus,  and  thus  !   Now  brave  revenge  is  mine. 

\_Soranzo  falls.] 

Fas.   I  cannot  hold  any  longer;  you,  sir,  are 

you  growne  insolent  in  your  butcheries  ?   Have 

at  you  !  Fighf. 

Gio.   Come,  I  am  arm'd  to  meete  thee.  80 

Vas.   No  !  will  it  not  be  yet  ?   If  this  will  not, 

another  shall.  Not  yet  ?  I  shall  fitt  you  anon.  — 

Vengeance  ! 

E?iter  Bandetti. 
Gio,  Welcome  !  come  more  of  you ;  what  e're 
you  be, 
I  dare  your  worst  —  \Jhey  surround  and  stab  him.]    85 
Oh,  I  can  stand  no  longer  !   Feeble  armes 
Have  you  so  soone  lost  strength  ?  \Fans.] 

Vas.  Now  you  are   welcome,  sir!  —  Away, 
my  maisters,  all  is  done ;  shift  for  your  selves, 
your  reward  is  your  owne ;  shift  for  your  selves.  90 
Banditti.   Away,  away  !  Exeunt  Bandetti. 

Vas,   How  d'ee,  my  lord  ?   See  you  this  ? 

\_Pointing  to  Gio.] 
How  is't  ? 

Soran.  Dead ;  but  in  death  well  pleased  that 
I  have  liv'd 
77  you-  Q  has  no  punctuation  after  you. 


Scene  VL]  'tlTig  ^it^  1 23 

To    see   my   wrongs   reveng'd   on  that    blacke 

devill.  95 

O,  Vasques,  to  thy  bosome  let  mee  give 
My  last  of  breath  j  let  not  that  lecher  live. — 
Oh  !  —  Dyes. 

Vas.  The  reward  of  peace   and   rest  be  with 
him,  my  ever  dearest  lord  and  maister !  100 

Gio.   Whose  hand  gave  mee  this  wound  ? 
Vas.  Mine,  sir;  I  was  your  first  man  :  have  you 

enough  ? 
Gio.   I  thanke  thee  ;  thou  hast  done  for  me 
But  what  I  would  have  else  done  on  my  selfe. 
Ar't  sure  thy  lord  is  dead  ? 

f^as.  Oh,  impudent  slave,  105 

As  sure  as  I  am  sure  to  see  the[e]  dye  ! 

Car.  Thinke  on  thy  life  and  end,  and  call 

for  mercy. 
Gio.   Mercy  ?  why  I  have  found  it  in  this  jus- 
tice. 
Car.  Strive  yet  to  cry  to  heaven. 
Gio.  Oh,  I  bleed  fast ! 

Death,  thou  art  a  guest  long  look't  for ;  I  em- 
brace I  "o 
Thee   and   thy  wounds.    Oh,  my   last  minute 

comes ! 
Where  e're  I  goe,  let  mee  enjoy  this  grace. 
Freely  to  view  my  Annabella's  face.  Dyes. 

Donado.  Strange  miracle  of  justice! 


124  '^ififpit^  [Actv. 

Car.  Rayse  up  the  citty ;  wee  shall  be  mur- 
dered all !  115 

Fas.  You  neede  not  feare,  you  shall  not  j  this 
strange  taske  being  ended,  I  have  paid  the  duty 
to  the  Sonne  which  I  have  vowed  to  the  father. 

Car.   Speake,  wretched  villaine,  what  incar- 
nate feind 
Hath  led  thee  on  to  this  ?  120 

Vas.  Honesty,  and  pitty  of  my  maisters 
wrongs  :  for  know,  my  lord,  I  am  by  birth  a 
Spaniard,  brought  forth  my  countrey  in  my 
youth  by  Lord  Soranzo's  father,  whom  whil'st 
he  lived  I  serv'd  faithfully ;  since  whose  death  1 125 
have  beene  to  this  man  as  I  was  to  him.  What 
I  have  done  was  duty,  and  I  repent  nothing,  but 
that  the  losse  of  my  life  had  not  ransom'd  his. 

Car.  Say,  fellow,  know'st  thou  any  yet  un- 
nam'd 
Of  counsell  in  this  incest?  130 

Vas.  Yes,  an  old  woeman,  sometimes  guard- 
ian to  this  murthered  lady. 

Car.   And  what's  become  of  her  ? 

Vas.  Within  this  roome  shee  is;  whose  eyes, 
after  her  confession,  I  caus'd  to  be  put  out,  but  135 
kept  alive  to  confirme  what  from  Giovanni's 
owne  mouth  you  have  heard.  Now,  my  lord, 
what  I  have  done  you  may  judge  of,  and  let  your 
owne  wisedome  bee  a  judge  in  your  owne  reason. 


Scene  VI.]  '®t0  Ptt^  12$ 

Car.   Peace !  —  First  this  woeman,  chiefe  in 
these  effects,  140 

My  sentence  is,  that  forthwith  shee  be  tane 
Out  of  the  citty,  for  examples  sake. 
There  to  be  burnt  to  ashes. 

Do.  'Tis  most  just. 

Car.    Be    it    your    charge,    Donado,    see    it 
done. 

Do.  I  shall.  145 

Fas.  What  for  mee  ?  If  death,  'tis  welcome  : 
I  have  beene  honest  to  the  sonne  as  I  was  to 
the  father. 

Car.   Fellow,  for  thee,  since  what  thou  did'st 
was  done 
Not  for  thy  selfe,  being  no  Italian,  150 

Wee  banish  thee  for  ever;  to  depart 
Within  three  dayes :  in  this  wee  doe  dispense 
With  grounds  of  reason,  not  of  thine  offence. 

Fas.  'Tis  well :  this  conquest  is  mine,  and  I 
rejoyce  that  a  Spaniard  out-went  an   Italian  in  155 
revenge.  Exit  Fas. 

Car.  Take  up  these  slaughtered  bodies,  see 
them  buried ; 
And  all  the  gold  and  Jewells,  or  whatsoever. 
Confiscate  by  the  canons  of  the  church. 
We  ceaze  upon  to  the  popes  proper  use.  160 

Richardetto    \dis covers   himself  \.    Your  graces 
pardon :  thus  long  I  liv'd  disguis'd 


126  '®tSf  |Dit)?  IActV. 

To  see  the  effect  of  pride  and  lust  at  once 
Brought  both  to  shamefull  ends. 

Car.   What !  Richardetto,whom  wee  thought 
for  dead  ? 

Do.  Sir,  was  it  you  — 

Rich.  Your  friend. 

Car.  Wee  shall  have  time  165 

To  talke  at  large  of  all ;  but  never  yet 
Incest  and  murther  have  so  strangely  met. 
Of  one  so  young,  so  rich  in  natures  store, 
Who  could  not  say, '  Tis  pitty  sheets  a  whoore  ? 

Exeunt. 

FINIS. 

The  generall  commendation  deserved  by  the 
actors  in  their  presentment  of  this  tragedy  may 
easily  excuse  such  i^^  faults  as  are  escaped  in 
the  printing.  A  common  charity  may  allow  him 
the  ability  of  spelling,  whom  a  secure  confidence 
assures  that  hee  cannot  ignorantly  erre  in  the 
application  of  sence. 


0ott&  to  'CijS  pitv 

For  the  meaning  of  single  ivordi  see  the  Glossary. 

3.  John,  Earle  of  Peterborough,  This  nobleman  was  in 
favour  with  both  James  I  and  Charles  I.  He  was  created  Earl  of 
Peterborough  by  letters  patent  of  March  9,  1627-8.  See  article  in 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography  on  Henry  Mordaunt,  second  Earl 
of  Peterborough. 

3.  first  fruites  of  my  leasure.  This  might  refer  to  the 
termination  of  some  piece  of  legal  business  or  even  to  permanent 
retirement  from  the  legal  profession  j  but,  as  Gifford  says,  **  so  little 
of  Ford's  personal  history  is  known,  that  no  allusion  to  any  circum- 
stance peculiar  to  himself  can  be  explained." 

7,  49.  Bononia.  The  Latin  form  of  Bologna,  the  seat  of  the 
oldest  university  in  Europe. 

9,  I.    stand  to  your  tackling.    Defend  yourself 

9,  8-9.  Wilt  thou  to  this  geere  ?  Do  you  wish  to  fight  ? 

11,  50.  I  should  have  worm'd  you.  Gifford  says, 
**  The  allusion  is  to  the  practice  of  cutting  what  is  called  the  'worm 
from  under  a  dog's  tongue,  as  a  preventi've  of  madness."  Cf. 
"  Some  of  our  preachmen  are  grown  dog  mad,  there's  a  worm  got 
into  their  tongues  as  well  as  their  heads. ' '  Familiar  Letters  of  "James 
Hoivell,  II,  p.   197,  Boston,   1907. 

II»  50-5*-  for  running  madde.  For  fear  of  your  running 
mad. 

12,  62.  unspleen'd  dove.  According  to  popular  belief,  the 
dove  owed  its  gentle  disposition  to  its  lack  of  gall.  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  exposed  this  '*  vulgar  error  "  in  Pscudodoxia  Epidemica^ 
Bk.  in.  Chap.  3. 

14,   125-6.    an   elder   brother  .  .  .  coxcomb.  Fleay 

thought  these  words  contained  "a  personal  allusion  to  Richard  Per- 
kins as  having  acted  those  parts  for  the  King's  Men,  and  now  per- 
sonating   Bergetto  for  the  Queen's."     The  suggestion  is    closely 


128  j]iote0 

associated  with  his  contention  that  the  play  was  produced  about 
1626,    which  has  not  met  with  approval. 

30,  56.  Padua.  The  seat  of  the  famous  university  founded 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  in  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  particularly  flourishing.  Coryat  tells  us  that  he  was  con- 
ducted about  the  city  by  "two  English  gentlemen  that  were  then 
commorant  in  Padua  when  I  was  there,  Mr.  Moore  Doctor  of 
Physicke,  and  Mr.  Willoughby  a  learned  Student  in  the  Univer- 
sity."   Crudities^  vol.  I,  p.  299,  Glasgow,  1905. 

31,  5.  Sanazar.  Jacopo  Sannazaro  was  born  at  Naples  in 
1458,  and  died  in  the  same  city  in  1530.  The  work  of  his  which 
exerted  the  widest  influence  in  England  was  his  prose  romance,  the 
Arcadia. 

32,  13.  his  briefe  Encomium.  Gifford  quotes  a  line  and  a 
half  of  this  poem,  which  may  be  found  in  Coryat' s  Crudities j  vol.  i, 
page  302,  Glasgow,  1905  : 

Viderat  Adriacis  Venetam  Neptunus  in  ucdis 

Stare  urbem,  &  toto  ponere  jura  mari  : 
Nunc  mihi  Tarpeias,quantumvis  Juppiter,  arces 

Objice,  &  ilia  tui  moenia  Martis,  ait. 
Si  peiago  Tybrim  praefero,  urbem  aspice  utramque, 

Illam  homines  dicas,  banc  posuisse  Deos. 

Coryat  says  that  he  heard  the  poet  had  a  '*  hundred  crownes  bestowed 
upon  him,"  and  that  he  wishes  his  friend  *' Mr.  Benjamin  John- 
son were  so  well  rewarded."  It  is  perhaps  worth  noting  that  James 
Howell  sends  this  hexastich  with  an  English  translation  in  a  letter 
to  Robert  Brown  of  the  Middle  Temple  from  Venice,  August  12, 
1621.  The  editions  of  1645  and  1650  as  well  as  Miss  Repplier's 
recent  edition  (^Familiar  Letters,  1907)  differ  in  several  points  from 
Coryat's  version.'  Howell  says  :  **  Sannazaro  had  given  him  by  Saint 
Mark  a  hundred  zecchins  for  every  one  of  these  verses,  which 
amounts  to  300  pounds."  Since  Ford,  as  well  as  Brown,  was  a 
member  of  the  Middle  Temple,  it  is  of  some  interest  also  that 
Howell  announces  the  sending  of  a  "parcel  of  Italian  books"  re- 
quested by  Brown. 

33,  30.  foyle  to  thy  unsated  change.  Must  I  serve  as 
a  dull  background  to  give  the  zest  of  contrast  to  your  lust  ? 

36,  107.  his  ■woe.  The  "  woe  occasioned  by  his  falsehood."  G. 


jpote0  129 

39,  5.  this  borrowed  shape.    His  disguise  as  physician, 
39,  13.  corambn  voyce  allows  hereof.  What  people  in 

general  think  of  this  matter. 

41,  41-2.  Whether  in  arts  ...  to  move  affection. 

An  inquiry  as  to  the  value  of  love-potions,  charms,  etc. 

42,  52.  Soranzo !   what,  mine  enemy !  Gifford  notes 

this  passage  as  a  case  of  forgetfulness  on  Ford's  part  :  '*  It  is 
strange  that  this  should  appear  a  new  discovery  to  Grimaldi,  when 
he  had  been  fully  apprised  of  it  in  the  rencontre  with  Vasques  in 
the  first  act."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  information  that  Soranzo 
has  the  father's  word  and  the  daughter's  heart  is  given  by  Florio 
just  after  Grimaldi  leaves  the  stage.  Grimaldi  had  reason  to  know 
that  Soranzo  was  his  rival,  but  not  that  he  was  the  accepted  lover. 

45>  ^-^7-  the  f[r]ame  and  composition  .  .  .  body. 

Cf.  "  The  temperature  of  the  mind  follows  the  temperature  of 
the  body  ;  which  certain  axiom  —  says  that  sage  prince  of  philoso- 
phers, Aristotle — is  evermore  infallible."  Honour  Triumphant: 
Worh  of  John  Ford,  in,  359. 

69,  8-25.  There  is  a  place  .  .  .  lawlesse  sheets. 

There  seem  to  be  some  reminiscences  here  of  Pierce  Pennilesse : 
*'  A  place  of  horror,  stench,  and  darknesse,  where  men  see  meat 
but  can  get  none,  or  are  ever  thirstie,  and  readie  to  swelt  for  drinke, 
yet  have  not  the  power  to  taste  the  coole  streames  that  runne  hard 
at  their  feet  ...  he  that  all  his  life  time  was  a  great  fornicator, 
hath  all  the  diseases  of  lust  continually  hanging  upon  him  ...  as 
so  of  the  rest,  as  the  usurer  to  swallow  moulten  gold,  the  glutton 
to  eate  nothing  but  toades,  and  the  Murtherer  to  bee  still  stabd  with 
daggers,  but  never  die."  JVorks  of  Thomas  Nashe,  vol.  i,  p.  218, 
London,  1904. 

71,  39.    Ay  mee  !    '*  The  Italian  aimc.'"    Dyce. 

83,  76.  Troppo  sperar,  inganna.  Excessive  hope  is  de- 
ceiful. 

83,  90*  shee  hath  yet.  There  is  apparently  some  defect  In 
the  quarto  here. 

90,  59.  Che   morte    [piu]  dolce    che   morire    per 

amore  ?    What  death  more  siveet  than  to  die  for  lo've? 

90,  63.    morendo  in   gra[z]ia  [dee]  morire   senza 

dolore.    To  die  in  grace  [?  of  God]  is  to  die  -without  grief. 


130  jliote0 

92,  103-4.  smother  your  revenge.    On  the  ethics  and 

legality  of  deferred  revenge  in  seventeenth-century  Italy  see  the 
pleadings  of  the  lawyers  in  The  Old  Tel/oiv  Book  (Publication  No.  89 
of  the  Carnegie  Institution  of  Washington)  edited  by  Charles  W. 
Hodell,  1908. 

95, 1 79-181.  I  remembred  the  proverbe  that 
"where  hens  .  .  .  sorry  houses."  Under  the  date  Feb.  5, 
1625,  Howell  writes  :   *'  I  remember  a  French  proverb 

La  maison  est  miserable  et  midiante 

Ou  la  poult  plus  haut  que  le  coq  chante. 

That  house  doth  every  day  more  wretched  grow 

Where  the  hen  louder  than  the  cock  doth  crow." 

Familiar  Letters  of  James  Howell,  vol.  1,  p.  JOZ. 

108,  75.  I  have  set  up  my  rest.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind. 

lie,  38.  let  my  hot  hare  have  law.  By  the  rules  of 
sport  a  hunted  animal  was  allowed  a  certain  time  to  get  the  start  of 
his  pursuers. 

122,  83.  Vengeance.  The  cue  for  the  appearance  of  the 
banditti  agreed  upon  in  Scene  IV  of  this  act. 


Cl^e  Tewfien  i^eatt 


THE   TEXT 

Thk  present  edition  follows  the  quarto  of  1633,  which  is  printed 
with  rather  more  care  than  the  quarto  '  Tis  Pity  —  especially  in  re- 
spect to  the  arrangement  of  the  lines.  As  in  the  case  of  '  lis  Pity, 
Dyce  noticed  some  slight  variations  in  the  copies  which  he  exam- 
ined, but  nothing  of  significance.  There  is  no  evidence  of  a  second 
edition  of  the  quarto.  The  old  copy  has  been  compared  with  the 
texts  of  Weber  and  of  Gifford  and  Dyce.  The  treatment  of  this 
text  is  identical  with  that  described  in  the  note  on  *  Tis  Pity. 


THE 

BROKEN 

HEART. 

A  Tragedy. 


nACTBTt 
By  the  K I N  g's  Majefties  Seruafits 

at  the  priuate  Houfe  in  the 
Black>fkies$. 


ride  Hontr. 


ZONDOU' 

PxIntedbyi.&forHvGH  bee  stow,  airfare  to 
be  ^1d  ac  I)is  Shop,  ncere  tbe  CaSk  ia 


SOURCES 

Thkri  is  ;i  hint  in  the  prologue  th.it  this  pl.iv  was  b.isod  on  tact, 
but  critics  h.jvr  born  obligcil  to  agree  with  Warvl  that  tlu"  "origin 
ot  the  stor>'  on  which  it  is  foundcil  is  unknown."  (>i/  llistoryof 
English  DftimMic  Literaturt^  vol.  in,  fuige  "9.)  In  the  Puhlicjtions 
of  the  'Modern  I^mguage  Asioci,ition  of  Amer'ua^  xxiv,  2,  pp.  274— 
85,  1  have  attempted  to  show  that  the  story  Ford  had  in  mind  was 
the  atVair  <\i  Sidney  and  Penelope  Oevereux,  wlu)  was  married  to 
Lord  Rich  and  later  to  Mountjov,  Karl  ot"  Devonshire.  Hartley  Col- 
eridge is  the  only  writer  that  1  know  of  who  has  poiivted  in  this  di- 
rection. In  a  note  at  the  bottom  ot  page  xlv  ii\  his  introduction 
i<^  the  works  ot  Massinger  and  Ford  he  savs:  "  Ford  no  doubt  re- 
membered Mountjoy  and  his  hapless  love  when  he  wrote  the  Hroktn 
Heart."  This  casual  suggestion — -  unknown  to  me  when  1  worked 
out  my  own  theory  —  rightly,  1  think,  connects  Lady  Rich  with 
the  play  ;  but  the  circumstances  attending  her  earlier  love  atVair  rally 
much  better  witli  the  situation  hiid  down  in  the  broken  Hear:. 


TO 

THE    MOST    WORTHY    DESERVER 

OV 

THE    NOiiLKST   TITLES    IN    HONOUR, 

WlLJJAiVI, 

LORD    CRAVKN,  HARON   OF 
HAMSTEED-MARSHALL 

My  Lonl: 

The  glory  of  a  great  name,  acfjiiircd  by  a  greater 
glory  of  action,  hath  in  all  ages  liv'd  tlje  truest  chronicle 
to  his  owne  memory.  In  the  practise  of  which  argument, 
your  grouth  to  perfection,  even  in  yr^jth,  hath  a|jj;ear'd 
so  sincere,  ko  lin-fiattcring  a  {>erine-riian,  that  jjo;,terity  5 
cannot  with  more  delight  read  the  merit  of  noble  endeav- 
ours then  noble  endeavours  merit  thankes  from  jjosterity 
to  be  read  with  delight.  Many  nations,  many  eyes  have 
becne  witner,;,<;:;  of  yoiir  deserts,  and  lov'd  them  :  be  pleas'd, 
then,  with  the  freedome  of  your  own  nature  to  admit  one  10 
amongst  all  particularly  into  the  list  of  such  as  honour  a 
faire  example  of  nobilitie.  There  is  a  kinde  f>f  humble  am- 
bition, not  un-comrricndable,  when  the  silence  of  study 
breakcs  ff^rth  into  discourse,  coveting  rather  encourage- 
ment then  applause;  yet  herein  censure  commonly  is  too  15 
severe  an  auditor,  without  the  moderation  of  an  able  pat- 
ronage. I  have  ever  becne  slow  in  courtship  of  greatnesse, 
not  ignorant  of  such  defects  as  are  frequent  to  opinion;  but 

Nature.    G-D,  name  —  apparently  a  mistake. 


136         (iri)f  Cpiotlf  2]^rDtcatorif 

the  justice  of  your  inclination  to  iiulustry  emboldens  my 
vveaknessc  of  confiilence  to  rellish  an  experience  of  yourio 
mercy,  :is  many  brave  dangers  have  tasted  of  your  cour- 
aiH\  N'i>ur  liMilship  strtneto  be  knowne  to  the  worKl,  when 
the  worlil  knew  vou  least,  by  voluntary  bvit  excellent  at- 
tempts: like  allowance  I  plead  of  being  knownc  to  your 
lordship,  — in  this  low  presumption,  —  by  tendring  to  a»5 
favourable  entertainnuMtt  a  ilcvotion  oHVed  from  a  heart 
that  can  be  as  truely  sensible  o\'  any  least  respect  as  ever 
professe  the  owner  in  my  best,  my  readiest  services,  a  lover 
of  your  naturall  love  to  vextue, 

yobri  For  J, 


The  Sceane. 
SFARIA 

The  speakers  names  fitted  to  the  qualities. 
Amyclas,  common  to  the  kings  of  Laconia. 
TrHOCLKs,  Honour  of  Love  linns  se^  a  favourite. 
Okmlus,  Angry ^  sonnc  to  Crotolon. 
Hassanks,  yexation^  a  jealous  nobleman. 
Armosti.s,  an  Appeaser,  a  counsellor  of  state. 
Crotolon,  Noyse,  anollier  counsellor. 
PkOPHiMJS,  Deare,  friend  to  Ithocles. 
Ni:archus,   Young  Prince,  Prince  of  Argos. 
Tkcnicus,  Artist,  a  j)liilosojjher. 
[II]KMOi'ffi[.,  CAutton  I 

(;roni:as,   ru'vernhaunter     \  *^'^  ^--ourticrs. 
Amklus,  Trusty,  friend  to  Nearchus. 
Phulas,  IVatchfull,  servant  to  Kassanes. 

CALANTffA,  Flojver  of  Beauty,  the  Kings  daughter. 
PENTHJiA,  Complaint,  sister  to  Ithocles. 
EuPHRANKA,  Joy,  a  maid  of  honour. 
CuRi^TAU.A,  Christall  }  ., 

Philkma,  a  Ktsse  [    '^'^^^^  "^  ^'^"^^"'■• 

Gra[uJsjs,  Old  Beldam,  overseer  of  Penthea. 

Persons  included. 

Thrasus,  Fiercenesse,  father  of  Ithocles. 
Aplotes,  Simplicity,  Orgilus  so  disguis'd. 

[Courtiers,  Officers,  Attendants,  &c.] 

[II]emophil.  Q.    Lcmophil.  Gra[u]sis.   Q.   Gramii. 

Courtiers  .  .  .  &.    Supplied  by  G-D. 


THE   PROLOGUE. 

Our  scaene  is  Sparta.   He  whose  best  of  art 
Hath  drawne  this  peece  cals  it  The    Broken 

Heart. 
The  title  lends  no  expectation  here 
Of  apish  laughter^  or  of  some  lame  jeer e 
At  place  or  persons  ;  no  pretended  clause  5 

Of jest^s  fit  for  a  broth  ell  courts'  applause 
From  vulgar  admiration :  such  low  songs ^ 
Tund  to  unchast  eares^  suit  not  modest  tongues. 
The  virgine  sisters  then  deserv* d fresh  hayes 
IVhen  innocence  and  sweetnesse  crown  d  their  layes:   10 
Then  vices  gasp' d  for  breathy  whose  whole  commerce 
IVas  whip* d  to  exile  by  unblushing  verse. 
This  law  we  keepe  in  our  presentment  noWy 
Not  to  take  freedome  more  then  we  allow  ; 
IVhat  may   be  here   thought  a  fiction^  when   times 

youth  15 

JVanted  some  riper  yeares^  was  knowne  a  truth : 
In  which ^  if  words  have  cloath'd  the  subject  right ^ 
Tou  may  pertake  a  pitty  with  delight. 


C]^e  QBrofeen  i^eart 


ACTUS    PRIMUS 

SCAENA    PRIMA.      [J  room  in  Croto/on's 
bouse.J^ 

Enter  Crotolon  and  Orgilus. 

Crotolon.  Dally  not  further;  I  will  know  the 
reason 
That  speeds  thee  to  this  journey. 

Orgilus.  Reason?  good  sir, 

I  can  yeeld  many. 

Crot.  Give  me  one,  a  good  one; 

Such  I  expect,  and  ere  we  part  must  have : 
Athens  ?   pray  why  to  Athens  ?    You  intend  not     5 
To  kicke  against  the  world,  turne  Cynic,  Stoicke, 
Or  read  the  logicke  lecture,  or  become 
An  Areopagite,  and  judge  in  causes 
Touching  the  common-wealth?   For,  as  I  take  it. 
The  budding  of  your  chin  cannot  prognosticate  10 
So  grave  an  honour. 

Org.  All  this  I  acknowledge. 

Crot.  You  doe!  then,  son,  if  books  and  love 
of  knowledge 

4  ere.   {2>  ^''e. 


140  ^\)t  llBroknt  l^cart  [Act  i. 

Enflame  you  to  this  travell,  here  in  Sparta 
You  may  as  freely  study. 

Org.  'Tis  not  that,  sir. 

Crot.  Notthat,sir?  Asa  father  I  command  thee  15 
To  acquaint  me  with  the  truth. 

Org.  Thus  I  obey  'ee : 

After  so  many  quarrels  as  dissention, 
Fury,  and  rage  had  broach't  in  blood,  and  some- 
times 
With  death  to  such  confederates  as  sided 
With  now  dead  Thrasus  and  your  selfe,  my  lord,  20 
Our  present  king,  Amiclas,  reconcil'd 
Your  eager  swords,  and  seal'd  a  gentle  peace : 
Friends  you   profest  your  selves,  which   to  con- 

firme, 
A  resolution  for  a  lasting  league 
Betwixt  your  families  was  entertain'd  25 

By  joyning  in  a  Hymenean  bond 
Me  and  the  faire  Penthea,  onely  daughter 
To  Thrasus. 

Crot.  What  of  this  ? 

Org.  Much,  much,  deere  sir. 

A  freedome  of  converse,  an  enterchange 
Of  holy  and  chast  love,  so  fixt  our  soules  30 

In  a  firme  grouth  of  union,  that  no  time 
Can  eat  into  the  pledge:  we  had  enjoy'd 

18   broach't.    Q,  brauch'tj  G-D,  broach'd. 
31    of  union.    Q,  of  holy  unionj  but  some  copies  of  Q  omit  Ao^. 
See  Dyce's  note,  fVorks  of  John  Ford,  vol.  i,  p.  218. 


Scene  I]  ^\)t  WtOlSitXt  l^Cart  1 4  ^ 

The  sweets  our  vowes  expected,  had  not  cruelty 
Prevented  all  those  triumphs  we  prepar'd  for 
By  Thrasus  his  untimely  death. 

Crot.  Most  certaine.  3S 

Org,   From  this  time  sprouted  up  that  poyson- 
ous  stalke 
Of  aconite  whose  ripened  fruit  hath  ravisht 
All  health,  all  comfort  of  a  happy  life. 
For  Ithocles,  her  brother,  proud  of  youth. 
And  prouder  in  his  power,  nourisht  closely  40 

The  memory  of  former  discontents, 
To  glory  in  revenge.    By  cunning  partly, 
Partly  by  threats,  'a  wooes  at  once,  and  forces 
His  virtuous  sister  to  admit  a  marriage 
With  Basanes,  a  nobleman,  in  honour  45 

And  riches,  I  confesse,  beyond  my  fortunes. 

Crot.  All  this  is  no  sound  reason  to  importune 
My  leave  for  thy  departure. 

Org.  Now  it  followes. 

Beauteous  Penthea,  wedded  to  this  torture 
By  an  insulting  brother,  being  secretly  50 

Compeld  to  yeeld  her  virgine  freedome  up 
To  him  who  never  can  usurpe  her  heart. 
Before  contracted  mine,  is  now  so  yoak'd 
To  a  most  barbarous  thraldome,  misery, 
Affliction,  that  he  savors  not  humanity,  55 

Whose  sorrow  melts  not  into  more  then  pitty 
In  hearing  but  her  name. 


142  artjt  115rofern  ll)fart  (acti. 

C?-ot,  As  how,  pray  ? 

Org.  Bassanes, 

The  man  that  calls  her  wife,  considers  truly 
What  heaven  of  perfection  he  is  lord  of 
Bv  thinking  faire  Penthea  his :  this  thought  60 

Besets  a  kinde  of  monster-love,  which  love 
Is  nurse  unto  a  feare  so  strong  and  servile 
As  brands  all  dotage  with  a  jealousie. 
All  eyes  who  gaze  upon  that  shrine  of  beauty 
He  doth  resolve  doe  homage  to  the  miracle;  65 

Some  one,  he  is  assur'd,  may  now  or  then, 
If  opportunity  but  sort,  prevaile  : 
So  much  out  of  a  selfe-unworthinesse 
His   feares   transport  him;   not  that  he  findes 

cause 
In  her  obedience,  but  his  owne  distrust.  70 

Crot.  You  spin  out  your  discourse. 

Org.  My  griefs  are  violente: 

For  knowing  how  the  maid  was  heretofore 
Courted  by  me,  his  jealousies  grow  wild 
That  I  should  steale  again  into  her  favours. 
And  undermine  her  vertues ;  which  the  gods        75 
Know  I  nor  dare  nor  dreame  of.    Hence,  from 

hence 
I  undertake  a  voluntary  exile. 
First,  by  my  absence  to  take  off  the  cares 
Of  jealous  Bassanes;  but  chiefly,  sir. 
To  free  Penthea  from  a  hell  on  earth ;  80 


Scene  I.|  XI^\^t  HBrOfem  f^tditt  1 43 

Lastly,  to  lose  the  memory  of  something 
Her  presence  makes  to  live  in  me  afresh. 

Crot.  Enough, my  Orgilus,  enough.  To  Athens 
I  give  a  full  consent.  —  Alas,  good  lady  !  — 
Wee  shall  heare  from  thee  often  ? 

Org.  Often. 

Crot.  See,  85 

Thy  sister  comes  to  give  a  farewell. 
Enter  Euphrania. 

Euphranea.  Brother ! 

Org.  Euphrania,  thus   upon   thy   cheekes    I 
print 
A  brothers  kisse;  more  carefull  of  thine  honour, 
Thy  health,  and  thy  well-doing,  then  my  life. 
Before  we  part,  in  presence  of  our  father,  90 

I  must  preferre  a  suit  to  'ee. 

Euphr.  You  may  stile  it, 

My  brother,  a  command. 

Org.  That  you  will  promise 

To  passe  never  to  any  man,  how  ever 
Worthy,  your  faith,  till,  with  our  fathers  leave, 
I  give  a  free  consent. 

Crot.  An  easie  motion ! 

rie  promise  for  her,  Orgilus. 

Org.  Your  pardon; 

Euphrania's  oath  must  yeeld  me  satisfaction. 

93  To  passe  never.   G— D,  Never  to  pass. 

94  Worthy.   {^  prints  at  end  of  preceding  line. 


95 


144  ^\\t  Broken  H^rart  (acti. 

Ei/phr.   By  Vesta's  sacred  fires  I  sweare. 

Crot.  And  I, 

By  great  Apollo's  beames,  joyne  in  the  vow, 
Not  without  thy  allowance  to  bestow  her  loo 

On  any  living. 

Org.  Deere  Euphrania, 

Mistake    me    not:    farre,    farre    'tis    from    my 

thought, 
As  farre  from  any  wish  of  mine,  to  hinder 
Preferment  to  an  honourable  bed 
Or  fitting   fortune;  thou  art   young  and   hand- 
some ;  105 
And  'twere  injustice,  —  more,  a  tyrannie, — 
Not  to  advance  thy  merit.    Trust  me,  sister, 
It  shall  be  my  first  care  to  see  thee  match'd 
As  may  become  thy  choyce,  and  our  contents: 
I  have  your  oath. 

Euphr.  You  have  :    but  meane  you, 

brother,  no 

To  leave  us  as  you  say  ? 

Crot.  I,  I,  Euphrania  : 

He  has  just  grounds  direct  him.    I  will  prove 
A  father  and  a  brother  to  thee. 

Euphr.  Heaven 

Does  looke  into  the  secrets  of  all  hearts : 
Gods,  you  have  mercy  with  'ee,  else  — 

Ct-ot.  Doubt  nothing  J 115 

Thy  brother  will  returne  in  safety  to  us. 


sctNiii.i         tEu^e  llBrokm  l^eart  145 

Org>  Soulcs  sunkc  in  sorrowes  never  are  with- 
out 'cm ; 
They  change  fresh  ayres,  but  beare  their  griefes 
about  'em.  Exeunt  omnes. 


SCAENE  2.     [y/  room  in  the  palace.'^ 

Flourish.     Enter   Amyclas   the    Kingy  ArmosteSf  Pro- 
philuSy  and  attendants. 

Amyclas.   The  Spartane  gods  arc  gracious  ;  our 
humility 
Shall  bend  before  their  altars,  and  perfume 
Their  temples  with  abundant  sacrifice. 
See,  lords,  Amyclas,  your  old  King,  is  entring 
Into  his  youth  againe  !    I  shall  shake  off  5 

This  silver  badge  of  age,  and  change  this  snow 
For  haires  as  gay  as  arc  Apollo's  lockes  ; 
Our  heart  leaps  in  new  vigour. 

Armostes,  May  old  time 

Run  backe  to  double  your  long  life,  great  sir  ! 

Amy.   It   will,  it    must,  Armostes :    thy   bold 
nephew,  lo 

Death-braving  Ithocles,  brings  to  our  gates 
Triumphs  and  peace  upon  his  conquering  sword. 
Laconia  is  a  monarchy  at  length  ; 
Hath  in  this  latter  warre  trod  underfoot 
Messenes  pride ;  Messene  bowes  her  necke  15 

To  Lacedemons  royalty.   O,  'twas 


146  ®l)e  Broken  l^eart  iacti. 

A  glorious  victory,  and  doth  deserve 
More  then  a  chronicle ;  a  temple,  lords, 
A  temple  to  the  name  of  Ithocles  ! 
Where  didst  thou  leave  him,  Prophilus  ? 

Prophilus.  At  Pephon,  ao 

Most  gracious  soveraigne  ;  twenty  of  the  noblest 
Of  the  Messenians  there  attend  your  pleasure 
For  such  conditions  as  you  shall  propose, 
In  setling  peace,  and  liberty  of  life. 

Jmy.  When  comes  your  friend  the  general  ? 

Proph,  He  promis'd    25 

To  follow  with  all  speed  convenient. 

Enter    Crotolony   Calanthay    Cbrystalla,    Philema   and 
Euphrania. 

Amy.  Our  daughter  !  —  Deere  Calantha,  the 
happy  newes. 
The  conquest  of  Messene,  hath  already 
Enrich'd  thy  knowledge. 

Calantha.  With  the  circumstance 

And  manner  of  the  fight,  related  faithfully  30 

By  Prophilus  himselfe  ;  but,  pray,  sir,  tell  me, 
How  doth  the  youthfuU  general!  demeane 
His  actions  in  these  fortunes  ? 

Proph.  Excellent  princesse, 

Your  owne  faire  eyes  may  soone  report  a  truth 
Unto  your  judgement,  with  what  moderation,      35 
Calmenesse  of  nature,  measure,  bounds  and  limits 
Of  thankefulnesse  and  joy,  'a  doth  digest 


Scene  II.]  tK^f^t  WtOlSitn  ^tUtt  147 

Such  amplitude  of  his  successe  as  would 
In  others,  moulded  of  a  spirit  lesse  cleare, 
Advance  'em  to  comparison  with  heaven.  4© 

But  Ithocles  — 

Cal.  Your  friend  — 

Proph.  He  is  so,  madam. 

In  which  the  period  of  my  fate  consists  : 
He  in  this  firmament  of  honour,  stands 
Like  a  starre  fixt,  not  mov'd  with  any  thunder 
Of  popular  applause  or  sudden  lightning  45 

Of  selfe-opinion.   He  hath  serv'd  his  country. 
And  thinks  'twas  but  his  duty. 

Cj-ot.  You  describe 

A  miracle  of  man. 

Amy.  Such,  Crotolon, 

On  forfeit  of  a  kings  word,  thou  wilt  finde  him. 
Harke,  warning  of  his  comming!  all  attend  him.   50 

Flourish.     Enter   Ithocles y   Hemophill,   and  Groneas ; 
the  rest  of  the  lords  ushering  him  in. 
Amy,   Returne  into  these  armes,  thy  home,  thy 
sanctuary. 
Delight  of  Sparta,  treasure  of  my  bosome, 
Mine  owne,  owne  Ithocles  ! 

Ithocles.  Your  humblest  subject. 

Armo.  Proud  of  the  blood  I  claime  an  interest 
in 
As  brother  to  thy  mother,  I  embrace  thee  55 

Right  noble  nephew. 


148  tETlje  llBrofeen  l^rart  [acti. 

Itho.  Sir,  your  love's  too  partiall. 

Crot.   Our  country  speakes  by  me,  who  by  thy 
valour, 
Wisdome,  and  service,  shares  in  this  great  action ; 
Returning  thee,  in  part  of  thy  due  merits, 
A  generall  welcom. 

Itho.  You  exceed  in  bounty.  60 

Cal.   Chrystalla,  Philena,  the  chaplet !  —  Itho- 
cles. 
Upon  the  wings  of  fame  the  singular 
And  chosen  fortune  of  an  high  attempt 
Is  borne  so  past  the  view  of  common  sight, 
That  I   my  selfe  with  mine  owne  hands  have 

wrought,  65 

To  crowne  thy  temples,  this  provinciall  garland; 
Accept,  weare,  and  enjoy  it,  as  our  gift 
Deserv'd,  not  purchas'd. 

Itho.  Y'are  a  royall  mayd. 

Jmy.  Shee  is  in  all  our  daughter. 

Itho.  Let  me  blush. 

Acknowledging  how  poorely  I  have  serv'd,  70 

What  nothings  I   have  done,  compar'd  with  th' 

honours 
Hcap'd  on  the  issue  of  a  willing  minde ; 
In  that  lay  mine  ability,  that  onely. 
For  who  is  he  so  sluggish  from  his  birth. 
So  little  worthy  of  a  name  or  country,  75 

That  owes  not  out  of  gratitude  for  life. 


Scene  U]  W^t  HBrOfeetX  ^tdXt  J  49 

A  debt  of  service,  in  what  kinde  soever 
Safety  or  counsaile  of  the  common-wealth 
Requires  for  paiment  ? 

Cal,  *A  speaks  truth. 

Itho.  Whom  heaven 

Is  pleas'd  to  stile  victorious,  there  to  such  80 

Applause  runs  madding,  like  the  drunken  priests 
In  Bacchus  sacrifices,  without  reason 
Voycing  the  leader-on  a  demi-god  : 
When  as,  indeed,  each  common  souldiers  blood 
Drops  downe  as  current  coyne  in  that  hard  pur- 
chase 85 
As  his  whose  much  more  delicate  condition 
Hath  suckt  the  milke  of  ease.  Judgement  com- 
mands. 
But  resolution  executes  :  I  use  not. 
Before  this  royall  presence,  these  fit  sleights 
As  in  contempt  of  such  as  can  direct :                    90 
My  speech  hath  other  end  :  not  to  attribute 
All    praise    to     one    mans     fortune,    which    is 

strengthed 
By  many  hands. — For  instance,  here  is   Pro- 

philus, 
A  gentleman  —  I  cannot  flatter  truth  — 
Of  much  desert ;  and,  though  in  other  ranke,       95 
Both  Hemophil  and  Groneas  were  not  missing 
To  wish  their  countries  peace ;  for,  in  a  word, 

79  ''A.   Here,  as  elsewhere,  G-D  prints  He. 


150  tClje  llBrofeen  l^eart  [act  i. 

All  there  did  strive  their  best,  and  *t  was  our 
duty. 

Amy.  Courtiers  turne  souldiers  ?  — We  vouch- 
safe our  hand  : 
Observe  your  great  example. 

Hemophil.  With  all  diligence,  loo 

Groneas.   Obsequiously  and  hourely. 

Jmy.  Some  repose 

After  these  toyles  [is]  needfull;  we  must  thinke 

on 
Conditions  for  the  conquered  ;  they  expect  'em. 
On,  —  come  my  Ithocles. 

Euphr,  Sir,  with  your  favour, 

I  need  not  a  supporter. 

Proph.  Fate  instructs  me.  105 

Exeunt.  Manent  Hemophilic  Groneas, 
Christalla  et  Philema. 

Hemophill  stayes  Chrystalla ;  Groneas,  Philema. 

Christalla.   With  me  ? 

Philema.  Indeed  I  dare  not  stay. 

Hem.  Sweet  lady, 

Souldiers  are  blunt, —  your  lip. 

Chris.  Fye,  this  is  rudenesse  ; 

You  went  not  hence  such  creatures. 

Gron.  Spirit  of  valour 

Is  of  a  mounting  nature. 

PhiL  It  appeares  so  : 

102   [r'i].    Q,  are. 


Scene  u]        ^^t  HBtofeen  l^eatt  1 5 1 

Pray,  in  earnest,  how  many  men  apeece  no 

Have  you  two  beene  the  death  of? 

Gron.  Faith,  not  many; 

We  were  compos'd  of  mercy. 

Hem,  For  our  daring 

You  heard  the  generals  approbation 
Before  the  king. 

Chris.  You  wish'd  your  countries  peace: 

That    shewM    your    charity ;    where    are   your 

spoyles,  115 

Such  as  the  souldier  fights  for  ? 

Phil.  They  are  comming. 

Chris,   By  the  next  carrier,  are  they  not  ? 

Gron.  Sweet  Philena, 

When  I  was  in  the  thickest  of  mine  enemies, 
Slashing  off  one  mans  head,  anothers  nose, 
Anothers  armes  and  legs  — 

Phi/.  And  altogether.       la© 

Gron.  Then  would  I  with  a  sigh  remember 
thee. 
And  cry,  "  Deare  Philena,  'tis  for  thy  sake 
I  doe  these  deeds  of  wonder ! " — dost  not  love  me 
With  all  thy  heart  now  ? 

Phi/.  Now  as  heretofore. 

I  have  not  put  my  love  to  use;  the  principall      125 
Will  hardly  yeeld  an  interest. 

no   Pray^   in  earnest ^   hoiv.     G— D,  In    earnest,    pray,   how. 
G,  Pray  [now]  in  earnest,  how. 


1 5  2  ® ijr  13roUf n  ll>f art  [act  l 

Gron.  By  Mars, 

ric  marry  thee ! 

Phil.  By  Vulcan,  y*are  forsworne. 

Except  my  mind  doe  alter  strangely. 

Gron.  One  word. 

Chris,  You  lye    beyond  all   modesty, —  tor- 
beare  me. 

Hem.   rie    make    thee   mistresse  of   a  city ; 

'tis  ,30 

Mine  owne  by  conquest. 

Chris.  By  petition  ;  sue  for*t 

In  forma  pauperis.  — City  !  kennell.  —  Gallants! 
(^ff  with  your  feathers,  put  on  aprons,  gallants; 
Learne  to  reele,  thrum,  or  trim  a  ladies  dog. 
And  be  good  quiet  soules  of  peace,  hobgoblins  !  135 

Htm.   Christalla! 

Chris.  Practise  to  drill  hogs,  in  hope 

To  share  in  the  acorns.   Souldiers !  Corn-cutters, 
But  not  so  valiant;  they  oft-times  draw  blood. 
Which  you  durst  never  doe.  When  you  have 

practis'd 
More  wit,  or  more  civility,  wee '11  ranke  'ee        140 
I'th  list  of  men  :  till  then,  brave  things  at  armes. 
Dare     not     to     speake    to    us,  —  most    potent 
Groneas  — 

Phil.  And    Hemophill  the  hardy,  —  at  your 
services. 

133  feather i.   Q,  fathers;  G— D,  feathers. 


scENir  III.]        cije  i3rofeen  C^eart  153 

Gron,  They  scorne  us  as  they  did  before  we 

went. 
Hem.   Hang  'cm,  let   us  scorne  them  and  be 

reveng'd.  Exeunt  Chri,  et  Philema.  145 

Gron.   Shall  we  ? 

Hem.  We  will ;  and  when  we  sleight 

them  thus, 
Instead  of  following  them,  they'll  follow  us. 
It  is  a  womans  nature. 

Gron.  'Tis  a  scurvy  one. 

Exeunt  omnes, 

SCENE  3.    \T'he  gardens  of  the  palace.   A  grove  ^ 

Enter  Tecnicus  a  philosopher y  and  Orgilus  disguised  like 
a  sc holler  of  his. 
Tecnicus.   Tempt  not  the    stars,  young  man, 

thou  canst  not  play 
With  the  severity  of  fate  :  this  change 
Of  habit  and  disguise  in  outward  view. 
Hides  not  the  secrets  of  thy  soule  within  thee. 
From  their  quicke-piercing  eyes,  which  dive  at 

all  times  5 

Downe  to  thy  thoughts  :  in  thy  aspect  I  note 
A  consequence  of  danger. 

Orgilus.  Give  me  leave. 

Grave  Tecnicus,  without  fore-dooming  destiny, 
Under  thy  roofe  to  ease  my  silent  griefes 
By  applying  to  my  hidden  wounds  the  balme        10 


154  ^\)t  BroUrn  il>fart  [acti. 

Of  thy  oraculous  lectures:  if  my  fortune 
Run  such  a  crooked  by-way  as  to  wrest 
A'ly  steps  to  ruine,  yet  thy  learned  precepts 
Shall  call  me  backe,  and  set  my  footings  streight: 
I  will  not  court  the  world. 

Tnn.  Ah,  Orgilus,  15 

Neglects  in  young  men  of  delights  and  life 
Run  often  to  extremities ;  they  care  not 
For  harmes  to  others  who  contemne  their  owne. 

Org.  But  I,  most  learned  artist,  am  not  so 
much 
At  ods  with  nature  that  I  grutch  the  thrift  zo 

Of  any  true  deserver;  nor  doth  malice 
Of  present  hopes  so  checke  them  with  despaire, 
As  that  I  yeeld  to  thought  of  more  affliction 
Then  what  is  incident  to  frailty  :  wherefore 
Impute  not  this  retired  course  of  living  25 

Some  little  time  to  any  other  cause 
Then  what  I  justly  render :  the  information 
Of  an  unsetled  minde;  as  the  effect 
Must  clearely  witnesse. 

T^cn.  Spirit  of  truth  inspire  thee  ! 

On  these  conditions  I  conceale  thy  change,  30 

And  willingly  admit  thee  for  an  auditor. 
rie  to  my  study. 

Org.  I  to  contemplations: 

In    these    delightfull  walkes.     \_Exif.  Teen.']  — 

Thus  metamorphiz'd, 


Scene  III]       ^1)0  llBrofem  i^eart  155 

I  may  without  suspition  hearken  after 
Pentheas  usage  and  Euphranias  faith.  35 

Love  !   Thou  art  full  of  mystery :  the  deities 
Themselves  are  not  secure  in  searching  out 
The  secrets  of  those  flames  which  hidden  wast 
A  breast  made  tributary  to  the  lawes 
Of  beauty.   Physicke  yet  hath  never  found  40 

A  remedy  to  cure  a  lovers  wound. 
Ha !  who  are  those  that  crosse  yon  private  walke 
Into  the  shadowing  grove  in  amorous  foldings? 
Prophilus  passeth  over^  supporting  Euphrania, 
and  whispering. 
My  sister!   O,  my  sister!   'tis  Euphrania 
With  Prophilus:  supported  too;  I  would  45 

It  were  an  apparition  !    Prophilus 
Is  Ithocles  his  friend ;  it  strangely  pusles  me. 
Againe !  Helpe  me,  my  booke ;  this  schollers  habit 
Must  stand  my  privilege  :  my  mind  is  busie ; 
Mine  eyes  and  eares  are  open. 

Walke  byy  reading. 
Enter  againe  Prophilus  and  Euphrania. 

Prophilus.  Doe  not  wast   5° 

The  span  of  this  stolne  time,  lent  by  the  gods 
For  precious  use,  in  nicenesse !    Bright  Euphra- 

nea, 
Should  I  repeat  old  vowes,  or  study  new, 
For  purchase  of  beleefe  to  my  desires  — 

Org.  \_aside^.   Desires? 


1 5^  ^\)t  llBroUrn  il;rart  [act  l 

Proph.  My  service,  my  integrity  —      55 

Org.  [aside^  .   That 's  better. 

Proph.  I  should  but  repeat  a  lesson 

Oft  conn'd  without  a  prompter  but  thine  eyes : 
My  love  is  honourable  — 

Org.  [^/-f/V/f].  So  was  mine 

To  my  Pcnthea :  chastly  honourable. 

Proph.   Nor  wants  there  more  addition  to  my 

wish  60 

Of  happinesse  then  having  thee  a  wife; 
Already  sure  of  Ithoclcs,  a  friend 
Firme  and  un-alterable. 

Org.  [^asidtf^.  But  a  brother 

More  cruell  then  the  grave. 

Euphranea.  What  can  you  looke  for 

\\\  answer  to  your  noble  protestations,  65 

From  an  unskilfull  mayd,  but  language  suited 
To  a  divided  minde  ? 

Org.  \juide^.  Hold  out,  Euphranea! 

Euphr.    Know,    Prophilus,    I    never    under- 
valued. 
From  the  first  time  you  mentioned  worthy  love. 
Your  merit,  mcancs,  or  person.   It  had  beene        7° 
A  fault  of  judgement  in  me,  and  a  dulnesse 
In  my  affections,  not  to  weigh  and  thanke 
My  better  starres  that  offered  me  the  grace 
Of  so  much  blisfulnesse.    For,  to  speake  truth, 
The  law  of  my  desires  kept  equall  pace  75 


Scene  III.]  ^Ijf  115roUCU  i)Cait  1 57 

With  yours,  nor  have  1  left  that  resolution ; 
But  oncly,  in  a  word,  what-cver  choyce 
J^ivcs  nearest  in  my  heart  must  first  procure 
Consent  both  from  my  father  and  my  brother, 
K're  he  can  owne  mc  his. 

Org.  [^/.v/VA'].  She  is  forsworne  else.  80 

Proph.   Leave  me  that  taske. 

Euphr.  My  brother,  c're  he  parted 

To  Athens,  had  my  oath. 

Org.  [(iside^.  Yes,  yes,  *a  had  sure. 

Proph.  I  doubt  not,  u^ith  the  meanes  the  court 
supplies. 
But  to  prevaile  at  pleasure. 

Org.  ^aside^  .  Very  likely  ! 

Proph.   Meane  time,  best,  dearest,  I  may  build 

my  hopes  85 

On  the  foundation  of  thy  constant  sufFrance 
In  any  opposition. 

Euphr.  Death  shall  sooner 

Divorce  life  and  the  joyes  1  have  in  living 
Then  my  chast  vowes  from  truth. 

Proph.  On  thy  faire  hand 

I  scale  the  like. 

Org.  [aside^.    There  is  no  faith  in  woman —  90 
Passion,  O,  be  contain'd  !    my  very  heart-strings 
Are  on  the  tenters. 

Euphr.  Sir,  we  are  over-heard, 

92  Sit .    G-1)  omits  j  see  note  in  vol.  1,  |>.  232. 


158  ®t)r  Brofern  Uncart  [act  i. 

Cupid  protect  us!  'twas  a  stirring,  sir, 
Of  some  one  necre. 

Proph.  Your  feares  are  needlesse,  lady ; 

None  have  accesse  into  these  private  pleasures     95 
Except  some  neere  in  court,  or  bosome  student 
From  Tecnicus  his  oratory,  granted 
By  speciall  favour  lately  from  the  king 
Unto  the  grave  philosopher. 

Euphr.  Me  thinkes 

I  heare  one  talking  to  himselfe:   I  see  him.  100 

Proph.   'Tis  a  poore  scholler,  as   I   told  you, 

lady. 
Org.  [aside^  .  I  am  discovered.  — \^Js  if  think- 
ing aloud.'\   Say  it :  is  it  possible 
With  a  smooth  tongue,  a  leering  countenance, 
Flattery,  or  force  of  reason  —  I  come  t*ee,  sir  — 
To  turne  or  to  appease  the  raging  sea?  105 

Answer  to  that.  —  Your  art !  what  art  ?  to  catch 
And  hold  fast  in  a  net  the  sunnes  small  atomes  ? 
No,  no  ;  they'll  out,  they'll  out :  ye  may  as  easily 
Out  run  a  cloud  driven  by  a  northerne  blast. 
As  fiddle  faddle  so!   Peace,  or  speake  sense.         no 
Euphr.    Call  you  this  thing  a  scholler?   'las 

hee's  lunaticke. 
Proph.   Observe  him,  sweet ;  'tis  but  his  rec- 
reation. 
Org.   But  will  you  heare  a  little !   You  are  so 
teatchy. 


Scene  III]  ^^t  WtO^^tXl  fQtM  159 

You  keepe  no  rule  in  argument.     Philosophy 
Workcs  not  upon  impossibilities,  115 

But  naturall  conclusions.  —  Mew!  —  absurd! 
The  metaphysicks  are  but  speculations 
Of  the  celestiall  bodies,  or  such  accidents 
As  not  mixt  perfectly,  in  the  ayre  ingendred, 
Appeare  to  us  unnatural! ;  that's  all.  120 

Prove  it ;  —  yet,  with  a  reverence  to  your  gravity, 
rie  baulke  illiterate  sawcinesse,  submitting 
My  sole  opinion  to  the  touch  of  writers. 
Proph.   Now  let  us  fall  in  with  him. 
Org.  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

These   apish    boyes,   when    they    but    tast    the 

grammates  125 

And  principals  of  theory,  imagine 
They  can  oppose  their  teachers.    Confidence 
Leads  many  into  errors. 

Proph.  By  your  leave,  sir. 

Euphr.   Are  you  a  scholler,  friend  ? 
Org.  I  am,  gay  creature, 

With  pardon  of  your  deities,  a  mushrome  130 

On  whom  the  dew  of  heaven   drops  now  and 

then  ; 
The   sunne   shines   on    me   too,   I   thanke   his 

beames  ! 
Sometime   I  feele  their  warmth  ;   and  eat,  and 
sleepe. 
Proph.  Does  Tecnicus  read  to  thee  ? 


i6o  tE^ti^  llBrofeen  J^eart  [acti. 

Org.  Yes,  forsooth, 

He  is  my  master  surely ;  yonder  dore  j^r 

Opens  upon  his  study. 

Proph,  Happy  creatures  ! 

Such  people  toyle  not,  sweet,  in  heats  of  state. 
Nor  sinke  in  thawes  of  greatnesse:  their  affec- 
tions 
Keepe  order  with  the  limits  of  their  modesty  ; 
Their    love   is    love    of  vertue.  —  What's  thy 

name  ?  ,40 

Org,    Aplotes,   sumptuous    master,   a   poore 

wretch. 
Euphr.  Dost  thou  want  any  thing  ? 
Org.  Books,  Venus,  books. 

Proph.    Lady,  a  new   conceit  comes  in  my 
thought. 
And  most  availeable  for  both  our  comforts. 
Euphr.  My  lord, — 

Proph.  Whiles  I  endevour  to  deserve  145 

Your  fathers  blessing  to  our  loves,  this  scholler 
May  daily  at  some  certaine  houres  attend. 
What  notice  I  can  write  of  my  successe. 
Here  in  this  grove,  and  give  it  to  your  hands  : 
The  like  from  you  tome:  so  can  we  never,        150 
Barr'd  of  our  mutuall  speech,  want  sure  intelli- 
gence ; 
And  thus  our  hearts  may  talke  when  our  tongues 
cannot. 


Scene  III.]  ^1)0  DBrOfeeU  f^tm  1 6 1 

Euphr.   Occasion  is  most  favourable;   use  it. 

Proph.  Aplotes,  wilt  thou  wait  us  twice  a  day,  - 
At  nine  i'  th  morning  and  at  foure  at  night,        155 
Here  in  this  bower,  to  convey  such  letters 
As  each  shall  send  to  other  ?   Doe  it  willingly. 
Safely,  and  secretly,  and  I  will  furnish 
Thy  study,  or  what  else  thou  canst  desire. 

Org.  Jove,  make  me  thankfull,  thankfull,  I 
beseech  thee,  160 

Propitious  Jove !   I  will  prove  sure  and  trusty : 
You  will  not  faile  me  bookes  ? 

Proph.  Nor  ought  besides 

Thy  heart  can   wish.    This  ladies  name's  Eu- 

phranea, 
Mine  Prophilus. 

Org.  I  have  a  pretty  memory: 

It  must  prove  my  best  friend.  —  I  will  not  misse  165 
One  minute  of  the  houres  appointed. 

Proph.  Write 

The  bookes  thou  wouldst  have  brought  thee  in 

a  note. 
Or  fake  thy  selfe  some  money. 

Org.  No,  no  money: 

Money  to  schollers  is  a  spirit  invisible. 
We  dare  not  finger  it ;  or  bookes,  or  nothing.      170 

Proph.    Bookes   of  what  sort  thou  wilt :  doe 
not  forget 
Our  names. 


1 62  ^\)t  llBroUm  Harare  iact  i. 

Org.  I  warrant  'ee,  I  warrant  'ee. 

Proph.   Smile,  Hymen,  on   the  grouth  of  our 
desires ; 
Wee'll  feed  thy  torches  with  eternall  fires! 

Exeunty  manet  Org. 
Org.   Put  out  thy  torches,  Hymen,  or  their 
light  175 

Shall  meet  a  darkenesse  of  eternall  night. 
Inspire  me,  Mercury,  with  swift  deceits ; 
Ingenious  fate  has  Icpt  into  mine  armes. 
Beyond  the  compasse  of  my  braine.  —  Mortal- 
ity 
Creeps  on  the  dung  of  earth,  and  cannot  reach   180 
The  riddles  which  are  purpos'd  by  the  gods. 
Great  arts  best  write  themselves  in   their  owne 

stories  ; 
They  dye  too  basely  who  out-live  their  glories. 

Exit, 


ACTUS  SECUNDUS:    SCAENA  PRIMA. 

[y/  room  in  Bassanes*  house.^ 

Enter  Bassanes  and  P hulas. 
Bassanes.    Tie  have   that    window    next    the 
street  dam'd  up  ; 
It  gives  too  full  a  prospect  to  temptation, 
And  courts  a  gazers  glances  :  there's  a  lust 
Committed  by  the  eye,  that  sweats  and  travels. 
Plots,  wakes,  contrives,  till  the  deformed  bear- 

whelpe  5 

Adultery  be  lick'd  into  the  act. 
The  very  act :  that  light  shall  be  dam'd  up ; 
D'ee  heare,  sir? 

Phulas.  I  doe  heare,  my  lord ;  a  mason 

Shall  be  provided  suddenly. 

Bass.  Some  rogue, 

Some  rogue  of  your  confederacy, —  factor  i© 

For  slaves  and   strumpets,  —  to   convey   close 

packets 
From  this  spruce  springall  and  the  tother  young- 
ster; 
That  gawdy  eare-wrig,  or  my  lord  your  patron, 
Whose  pensioner  you  are.  —  I'le  teare  thy  throat 

out, 
Sonne  of  a  cat,  ill-looking  hounds-head;  rip  up  15 


1 64  W\)t  Brofern  Harare  [act  n. 

Thy  ulcerous  maw,  if  I  but  scent  a  paper, 
A  scroll,  but  halfe  as  big  as  what  can  cover 
A  wart  upon  thy  nose,  a  spot,  a  pimple, 
Directed  to  my  lady  :  it  may  prove 
A  mysticall  preparative  to  lewdncsse.  ao 

Phu/.  Care  shall  be  had.  —  I  will  turne  every 

thread 
About  me  to  an  eye. —  \^Jside.~\  Here  *S  a  sweet 

life! 
Bass.    The  city  houswives,  cunning  in  the 

traffique 
Of  chamber-merchandise,  set  all  at  price 
By  whole-sale  ;  yet  they  wipe  their  mouthes,  and 

simper,  25 

Cull,  kisse,  and  cry  "  Sweet-hart,"  and  stroake 

the  head 
Which   they    have    branch'd ;    and   all    is    well 

again e  ! 
Dull  clods  of  dirt,  who  dare  not   feele  the  rubs 
Stucke  on  the  fore-heads  ? 

Phul.  'Tis  a  villanous  world, 

One  cannot  hold  his  owne  in't. 

Bass.  Dames  at  court,  30 

Who  flaunt  in  riots,  runne  another  byas  : 
Their  pleasure  heaves  the  patient  asse  that  suf- 
fers 
Up  on  the  stilts  of  office,  titles,  incomes; 
Promotion  justifies  the  shame,  and  sues  for*t. 


Scene  1]  ^\)t  llBrOkeiT  fi^tUtt  165 

Poore  honour!   thou  art   stabM  and   blccd'st  to 

death  35 

By  such  unlawfull  hire.    The  country  mistresse 
Is  yet  more  wary,  and  in  blushes  hides 
What  ever  trespasse  drawes   her  troth  to  guilt ; 
But  all  are  false.   On  this  truth  I  am  bold, 
No  woman  but  can  fall,  and  doth,  or  would  —  40 
Now  for  the  newest  newes  about  the  citie ; 
What  blab  the  voyces,  sirrha  ? 

Pbu/.  O,  my  lord. 

The  rarest,  quaintest,  strangest,  tickling  newes 
That  ever  — 

Bass.   Hey  da  !  up  and  ride  me,  rascall ! 
What  is  't  ? 

Phu/.  Forsooth,  they  say,  the  king  has  mewM  45 
All  his  gray  beard,  instead  of  which  is  budded 
Another  of  a  pure  carnation  colour, 
Speckled  with  greene  and  russet. 

Bass.  Ignorant  blocke  ! 

Phul.    Yes  truly;    and    'tis    talkt    about  the 
streets. 
That  since  Lord  Ithocles  came  home,  the  lyons  50 
Never  left  roaring,  at  which  noyse  the  beares 
Have  danc'd  their  very  hearts  out. 

Bass.  Dance  out  thine  too. 

Pbu/.   Besides,  Lord  Orgilus  is  fled  to  Athens 
Upon  a  fiery  dragon,  and  'tis  thought 
A'  never  can  returne. 


i66  tirtje  315roken  l^eart  [acth. 

Bass.  Grant  it,  Apollo !  55 

Phul.   Moreover,    please    your    lordship,   'tis 
reported 
For  certaine,  that  who  ever  is  found  jealous 
Without  apparant  proofe  that's  wife  is  wanton 
Shall  be  divorc'd  :   but  this  is  but  she-newes ; 
I  had  it  from  a  midwife.   I  have  more  yet.  60 

Bass.  Anticke,  no  more  !    Ideots  and  stupid 
fooles 
Grate  my  calamities.   Why  to  be  faire 
Should  yeeld  presumption  of  a  faulty  soule  ? 
Looke  to  the  doores. 

Phul.  \aside'\ .  The  home  of  plenty  crest  him. 

Exit  Phul. 
Bass.  Swormes  of   confusion   huddle  in  my 
thoughts  65 

In  rare  distemper.   Beauty !   O,  it  is 
An  unmatcht  blessing  or  a  horrid  curse. 

Enter  Penthea  and  Grausis,  an  old  lady. 
Shee  comes,  she  comes  !  so  shoots  the  morning 

forth. 
Spangled  with  pearles  of  transparent  dew. 
The  way  to  poverty  is  to  be  rich;  70 

As  I  in  her  am  wealthy,  but  for  her 
In  all  contents  a  bankrupt.  —  Lov'd  Penthea  ! 
How  fares  my  hearts  best  joy  ? 

Grausis.  Insooth,  not  well, 

She  is  so  over-sad. 


75 


Scene  l]  ^\)t  HBrohcu  l^catt  - 1 6  7 

Bass.  Leave  chattering,  mag-pye.  — 

Thy  brother  is   return'd,  sweet,  safe  and  hon- 

oiir'd 

With  a  triumphant  victory ;  thou  shalt  visit  him: 
We  will  to  court,  where,  if  it  be  thy  pleasure. 
Thou  shalt  appeare  in  such  a  ravishing  lustre 
Of  jewels  above  value,  that  the  dames 
Who  brave  it  there,  in  rage  to  be  out-shin'd,        8o 
Shall  hide  them  in   their  closets,  and  unseene 
Fret  in  their  teares;   whiles  every  wondring  eye 
Shall  crave  none  other  brightnesse  but  thy  pres- 
ence. 
Choose  thine  owne  recreations  ;  be  a  queene 
Of  what  delights  thou  fanciest  best,  what  com- 
pany, 85 
What  place,  what  times ;  doe  any  thing,  doe  all 

things 
Youth  can  command  ;   so  thou  wilt  chase  these 

clouds 
From  the  pure  firmament  of  thy  faire  lookes. 
Grau.   Now  'tis  well  said,  my  lord.   What, 
lady  !  laugh. 
Be  merry;  time  is  precious. 

Bass.  Furies  whip  thee  ! 

Penthea.  Alas,  my  lord,  this  language  to  your 
hand-maid 
Sounds  as  would  musicke  to  the  deafe ;  I  need 
No  braveries  nor  cost  of  art  to  draw 


90 


1 68  (iri)f  »OUrU  ll)fait  (Act  II. 

The  vvhitcncssc  of  my  name  into  offence  ; 

Let  such,  if  any  such  there  are,  who  covet  95 

A  curiosity  of  admiration, 

By  laying  out  their  plenty  to  full  view, 

Appeare  in  gawdy  out-sides  ;  my  attires 

Shall  suit  the  inward  fashion  of  my  minde  ; 

From  which,  if  your  opinion  nobly  plac'd,  100 

Change  not  the  livory  your  words  bestow, 

My  fortunes  with  my  hopes  are  at  the  highest. 

B{iss.   This  house,  me   thinkes,  stands   some- 
what too  much  inward. 
It  is  too  melancholy  ;' wee' 11  remove 
Nearer  the  court  :   or  what  thinks  my  Penthea    105 
iM'  the  delightfull   island  we  command  ? 
Rule  me  as  thou  canst  wish. 

Pt/i.  I  am  no  mistresse  ; 

Whither  you  please,  1  must  attend;  all  wayes 
Are  alike  pleasant  to  me. 

Gnm.  Island!  prison; 

A  prison  is  as  gaysome  :  wee'll  no  islands  :  no 

Marry,  out  upon  'cm  !  whom  shall  we  see  there  .? 
Sea-s2;uls  and  porpiscis  and  water-rats 
And  crabs  and  mewes  and  dogfish  !  goodly  geere 
For  a  young  ladies  dealing,  or  an  old  ones  ! 
On  no  termes  islands;  I'le  be  stew'd  first. 

Bdss.  [(isi(lt\to  Grail.'].  Cjrausis, "5 

You  are  a  jugling  bawd.  —  This  sadnesse,  sweet- 
est, 


scfnki.i  X!ly\)t  W>xo\\m  imtt  169 

Hccomcs  not  youthfull  blood.  — [JsirJe  to  Grau.'] 

I'll-  Ikivc  you  pouiulcd.  — 
For  my  sake  put  on  a  more  chiarciull  mirth; 
'I'hou't  marrcr  thy  chcckcs,  and  make  me  old  in 

griefef^.  — 
\  Aside  to  Gruu.\      Damnable  bitch-foxc  ! 

Gran.  I  ^nn  lhi("ke  of  hearing  120 

Still,  when    the   wind   blowes   southerly.     What 

thinke'ee, 
If  your  fresh  lady  breed  young  bones,  my  lord  ? 
Wood  not  a  chopping  boy  d'ec  good  at  heart  ? 
IJut,  as  you  said  — 

Bass.    \  aside  to    Grau.^.     Tie    spit   thee   on   a 
stake, 
Or  chop  thee  into  collops  ! 

Grau.  Pray,  speake  louder.  i2<; 

Sure,  sure,  the  wind  blowes  south  still. 

Pen.  I'hou  prat'st  madly. 

Bass.   'Tis  very  hot;   1  sweat   extreamely. — 
Now  ? 

[Rt'-']  Enter   P hulas. 

PhuL   A  heard  of  lords,  sir. 

Bass.  Ha  ? 

PhuL  A  Hock  of  ladies. 

Bass.    Where? 

PhuL  Shoalds  of  horses. 

Bass.  Peasant,  how  ? 

PhuL  Carochcs 


1 70  ® l)r  Brohrn  il)rait  [act  n. 

In  drifts  —  th'  one  enter,  th'  other  stand  with- 
out, sir.  130 
And  now  I  vanish.                                 Exit  PhuLis. 

Enter   PropbiluSf  Hcmophil^    GroneaSy  Cbristalla   and 
Philcna. 

Proph'ilus.  Noble  Rassancs  ! 

Bass.   Most   welcome   Prophilus,  ladies,  gen- 
tlemen ; 
To  all  my  heart  is  open ;  you  all  honour  me,  — 
[AsideJ\     A    tympany   swels    in    my   head    al- 
ready, — 
Honour  me  bountifully.  —  [y/f/VA.]    How  they 

flutter,  135 

Wagtailes  and  jayes  together  ! 

Proph.  From  your  brother, 

By  virtue  of  your  love  to  him,  1  require 
Your  instant  presence,  fairest. 

Pfu.  He  is  well,  sir  ? 

Proph.  The  gods  preserve  him  ever  :  yet,  deare 
beauty, 
I  finde  some  alteration  in  him  lately,  ,40 

Since  his  returne  to  Sparta.  —  My  good  lord, 
I  pray  use  no  delay. 

Bass.  We  had  not  needed 

An  invitation,  if  his  sisters  health 
Had  not  fallen  into  question.  —  Hast,  Penthea, 
Slacke  not  a  minute:  lead  the  way,good  Prophilus;  145 
rie  follow  step  by  step. 


Scene  IL]  tCt|e  mOttXl  i^^tditt  'l  J  I 

Proph.  Your  arme,  faire  madam. 

Exeunt  omnes  sed  Bass,   cJ'  (irau. 

Bass.   One  word  with  your  old  bawdship:  th' 
hadst  bin  better 
Raild  at   the  sinnes  thou  worshipst    then   have 

thwarted 
My  will :  rie  use  thee  cursedly. 

Grau.  You  dote, 

You  are  beside  yourselfe.   A  politician  150 

In  jcalousie  ?   No,  y'are  too   grossc,  too  vulgar. 
Pish,  teach  not  me   my  trade  ;   I  know  my  cue: 
My  crossing  you  sinks   me  into  her  trust, 
By  which  I  shall  know  all:  my  trade's  a  sure  one. 

Bass.   P'orgive  me,  Grausis,  twas  consideration  155 
I  rellisht  not  j  but  have  a  care  now. 

Grau.  Feare  not, 

I  am  no  new-come-too*t. 

Bass,  Thy  life's  upon  it. 

And  so  is  mine.     My  agonies  are  infinite. 

Exeunt  omnes. 

SCAENE    2.    [The  palace.   Ithocles'  apartment.'] 
Enter  Ithocles  alone. 
Ithocles.    Ambition !    'tis   of  vipers   breed ;   it 
knawes 
A  passage  through  the  wombc  that  gave  it   mo- 
tion. 

148  iinnci.  G-D,  saints.  155  Grauiii.  Q,  GraiuU. 


1 7  2  grijc  Brohcu  C^cart  [act  n. 

Ambition,  like  a  scclcd  dove,  mounts  upward, 

Higher  and  higher  still  to  pearch  on  clouds, 

But  tumbles  headlong  downe  with  heavier  ruine.     5 

So  squibs  and  crackers  flye  into  the  ayre, 

Then,  onely  breaking  with  a  noyse,  they  vanish 

In  stench  and  smoke.    Morality  appli'd 

To  timely  practice  keeps  the  soule  in  tune, 

At  whose  sweet  musicke  all  our  actions  dance :    10 

But  this  is   forme  of  books   and  schoole-tradi- 

tion  ; 
It  physicks  not  the  sicknesse  of  a  minde 
Broken  with  griefes  :  strong  feavers  are  not  eas*d 
With    counsell,    but    with    best    receipts     and 

meanes  : 
Meanes,  speedy  meanes  and  certaine  j  that's  the 

cure.  15 

Enter  Armostes  and  Crotolon. 

Armostcs.   You  sticke.  Lord  Crotolon,  upon  a 
point 
Too  nice  and  too  unnecessary.    Prophilus 
Is  every  way  desertfull.    I  am  confident 
Your  wisdome  is  too  ripe  to  need  instruction 
From  your  sonnes  tutillage. 

Crotolon.  Yet  not  so  ripe,         20 

My  Lord  Armostes,  that  it  dares  to  dote 
Upon  the  painted  meat  of  smooth  pcrswasion. 
Which  tempts  me  to  a  breach  of  faith. 

Itho.  Not  yet 


Scene  IL]  ^\)t  'BtO^tXt  ^t^Xt  173 

Rcsolv'd,  my  lord  ?  Why,  if  your  sonnes  consent 
Ik'  so  availcahlc,  wcc'll  write  to  Athens  25 

For  his  repairc  to  Sparta.     The  kings  hand 
Will   joyne    with    our   desires ;    he    has    bcene 
mov'd  too't. 

Armo,  Yes,  and  the  king  himsclfc  importun'd 
Crotolon 
For  a  dispatch. 

Crot.  Kings  may  command  ;  their  wils 

Are  lawes  not  to  be  questioned. 

Itho.  i^y  this  marriage  30 

You  knit  an  union  so  devout,  so  hearty, 
Betweene  your  loves  to  me  and  mine  to  yours. 
As  if  mine  owne  blood  had  an  interest  in  it ; 
For  Prophilus  is  mine,  and  1  am  his. 

Crot.   My  lord,  my  lord  !  — 

Ith,         What,  good  sir  ?  speak  your  thoght.      35 

Crot.    Had  this  sincerity  beene  reall  once. 
My  Orgilus  had  not  beene  now  un-wiv'd. 
Nor  your  lost  sister  buried  in  a  bride-bed  : 
Your  unckle  here,  Armostes,  knowes  this  truth  ; 
For  had  your  father  Thrasus  liv'd,  —  but  peace    40 
Dwell  in  his  grave  !   I  have  done. 

Arrno.  Y'are  bold  and  bitter. 

Itho.   'A  presses  home  the  injury;  it  smarts: 
No  reprehensions,  uncle,  1  deserve  'em. 
Yet,  gentle  sir,  consider  what  the  heat 
Of  an  unsteady  youth,  a  giddy  braine,  45 


174  W\)t  ilBiokrn  Uncart  (actii. 

Cjrccne  indiscretion,  flattery  of  greatncsse, 

Rawnesse  of  judgement,  wilfulnesse  in  folly, 

I'houghts  vagrant  as  the  wind,  and  as  uncertaine, 

Might  lead  a  boy  in  yeeres  too  :  'twas  a  fault, 

A  capitall  fault;  for  then  I  could  not  dive  50 

Into  the  secrets  of  commanding  love: 

Since  when,  experience,   by  the   extremities  in 

others, 
Hath  forc'd  me  to  collect,  and,  trust  me,  Crot- 

olon, 
I  will  redeeme  those  wrongs  with  any  service 
Your  satisfaction  can  require  for  currant.  55 

Armo.  Thy  acknowledgement  is  satisfaction. 
What  would  you  more  ? 

Crot.  I'me  conquer'd  :  if  Euphrania  \ 

Her  selfe  admit  the  motion,  let  it  be  so. 
I  doubt  not  my  sonnes  liking. 

Itho.  Use  my  fortunes, 

Life,  power,  sword,  and  heart,  all  are  your  owne.   60 

Enter  Bassanesy  Prophilusy  Calnnthay  Pe?itheay  Eu- 
phra?ieay  Chrystallay  Philemtiy  and  Grausis. 

Armo.  The  princesse  with  your  sister. 

Calantha.  I  present  'ee 

A  stranger  here  in  court,  my  lord ;  for  did  not 
Desire  of  seeing  you  draw  her  abroad. 
We  had  not  beene  made  happy  in  her  company. 

52   the  extremities.      G-D,  th'  extremes. 

56    Thy  acknoivledgement .      G-D,  TJi'  acknuwledgment. 


scF.NK  II.]         ®i)e  llBrobcn  l^eart  i  75 

/tho.   You  arc  a  gracious  princessc.  —  Sister, 

wcdlocke  65 

Holds  too  severe  a  passion  in  your  nature, 
Which  can  engrosse  all  duty  to  your  husband. 
Without  attendance  on  so  dearc  a  mistresse. 
*'ris  not  my  brothers  pleasure,  I  presume, 
T'  immure  her  in  a  chamber. 

Bassanes.  '  Tis  her  will  ;         7° 

Shee  governcs  her  ownc  hourcs.   Noble  Ithocles, 
We  thanke  the  gods  for  your  successe  and  welfare. 
Our  lady  has  of  late  beene  indispos'd, 
I'^lse  we  had  waited  on  you  with  the  first. 

Itho.   How  does  Penthea  now  ? 

Penthca.  You  best  know,  brother,   75 

from  whom  my  health  and  comforts  are  deriv'd. 

Bass.  \aside\,   1  like  the  answer  well :  'tis  sad 
and  modest. 
There    may   he  tricks    yet,   tricks.  —  Have  an 
eye,  Grausis  ! 

Cal.   Now,  Crotolon,  the   suit   we  joyn'd  in 
must  not 
F'all  by  too  long  demurre. 

Crot.  *Tis  granted,  princessc,  80 

For  my  part. 

Armo,  With  condition,  that  his  sonnc 

Favour  the  contract. 

Cal.  Such  delay  is  casie. 

The  joyes  of  marriage  make  thee,  Prophilus, 


i;^  d)f  113roUrn  ll>rart  iac^h. 

A  proud  Jcsfivcr  of  Kuphraiiiii's  love, 
And  her  of  thy  desert. 

Prop/.K  Most  sweetly  gracious  !   ^5 

Bass.    r\\c  joyes  of  marriage  are  the  heaven 
on  earth, 
Life's  paradise,  great  princesse,  the  soules  quiet, 
Sinewes  of  concord,  earthly  immortality, 
f.ternity  of  pleasures  ;  no  restoratives 
Like  to  a  constant  woman  ! — [^j/VA.]   But  where 

is  she  ?  90 

*Twould  puzzle  all  the  gods  but  to  create 
Such  a  new  monster.  ^ — I  can  speake  by  proofe. 
For  1  rest  in  J^'.li/.ium  ;  'tis  my  happinesse. 

Crot.   Euphrania,  how  are  you  resolv'd,  speake 
freely. 
In  your  affections  to  this  gentleman  ?  95 

Euphr<itif(i.  Nor  more  nor  lesse  then   as   his 
love  assures  me. 
Which,  if  your  liking  with  my  brothers  warrants, 
I  cannot  but  approve  in  all  points  worthy. 
Crot.   So,  so,  I  know  your  answer. 
Jtho.  *T  had  bin  pitty 

To  sunder  hearts  so  equally  consented.  100 

Enter  Hemophill. 
Hemophil.     The   king.   Lord    Ithocles,  com- 
mands your  presence ; 
And,  fairest  princesse,  yours. 

CaL  We  will  attend  him. 


scKNK III         ^fje  llBroken  l^eart  177 

Enter  (ironcai. 
Groncas.    Where  arc  the  lords?   All  must  unto 
the  king 
Without  delay:  the  Prince  ofArgos  — 

Cal.  Well,  sir. 

Gron.    Is  comming  to  the  court,  sweet  lady. 
(juL  How  !  105 

The  Prince  of  Argos  ? 

Gron.  'T'was  my  fortune,  madam, 

T'enjoy  the  honour  of  these  hap{)y  tidings. 
It  ho.   iV-nthea! 
Pen.  Brother ! 

Jtho.  Let  me  an  howre  hence 

Meet  you  alone  within  the  palace  grove; 
I  have  some  secret  with  you.  —  i^rethe,  friend,  no 
Conduct  her  thither,  and  have  speciall  care 
The  walks  be  clear'd  of  any  to  disturbe  us. 
Proph.    1  shall. 
liass.  How's  that? 

Itho.  Alone,  J^ray  he  alone. — 

I  am  your  creature,  princesse.  —  On,  my  lf;rds! 

Exeunt  \jxcept  Bassanes.'^ 
Bassanes. 
Bass.   Alone!   alone!  what  meancs  that  word 

*' alone"?  115 

Why    might  not    I    he  there?  —  hum!  —  hee's 

her  brother; 
Brothers  and  sisters  are  but  flesh  and  blood, 


178  iEljf  BroUfu  ll)fart  [actii. 

And  this  same  whorson  court  case  is  temptation 
To  a  rebellion  in  the  veines.  —  Besides, 
His  fine  friend  Prophilus  must  be  her  guardian.  120 
Why  may  not  he  dispatch  a  businesse  nimbly 
Before  the  other  come?  —  or — pandring,  pan- 

dring 
For  one  another,  bee't  to  sister,  mother, 
Wife,  coiiz-en,  any    thing,   'mongst  youths    of 

mettall 
Is  in  reijuest.   It  is  so  —  stubborne  fate:  125 

But  if  I  be  a  cuckold,  and  can  know  it, 
I  will  be  fell,  and  fell. 

[^Re-^t7jfrr  Gronetis. 
Gron.  My  lord,  y'are  call'd  for. 

Bass.    Most  hartily  1  thanke  ye.   Where's  my 

wife,  pray  ? 
Gron.    Retir'd  amongst  the  ladies  — 
Bass.  Still  I  thanke  'ee  : 

There's  an  old  waiter  with  her;  saw  you  her  too  ?  130 
Gron.  She  sits  i'th  presence  lobby  fast  asleepe, 

sir. 
Bass.   Asleepe  ?   sleepe,  sir  ! 
Gr^on.  Is  your  lordship  troubled  ? 

You  will  not  to  the  king? 

Bass.  Your  humblest  vassaile. 

Grofi.   Your  servant,  my  good  lord. 
Bass.  I  wait  your  footsteps. 

Exeunt. 


scrNK ITT]        tE^l)c  115coUcn  Uncart  " » 79 

SCAENE  TIIK  THIRD.    [The  gardens  of 
the  palace.'\ 

Prophilus,  Penthea. 
Prophilus.  In  this  walkc,  lady,  will  your  brother 
liiui  you  : 
And,  with  your  favour,  give  me  leave  a  little 
To  worke  a  preparation.    In  his  fashion 
I  have  observ'd  of  late  some  kind  of  slacknesse 
To  such  alacrity  as  nature  5 

And  custome  tooke  delight  in  :  sadnesse  growcs 
Upon  his  recreations,  which  he  hoards 
In  such  a  willing  silence,  that  to  (juestion 
The  grounds  will  argue  [litilc]  skill  in  friendship. 
And  lesse  good  manners. 

PiHthm.  Sir,  I 'me  not  inquisitive   lo 

Of  secrecies  without  an  invitation. 

Proph.    With  pardon,  lady,  not  a  sillable 
Of  mine  implyes  so  rude  a  sense  j  the  drift  — 
Enter  Orgilus,  \_disguised  as  before,  ] 
Proph.    Doe  thy  best 
To  make  this  lady  merry  for  an  houre.        Exit.    ,5 
Orgilus.    Your  will  shall  be  a  law,  sir. 
/j^,„  Prethc,  leave  me  \ 

I  have  some   private  thoughts  I  would  account 

with  : 
Use  thou  thine  owne. 

5  G-D  supplicu  [ontcj  after  nature.      9  iitlU.    Supplied  by  G-D. 


i8o  ^\)t  llBrobfit  H^rart  iacth. 

Org.  Speake  on,  faire  nimph,  our  soules 

Can  dance  as  well  to  musicke  of  the  spheares 
As  any's  who  have  feasted  with  the  gods.  20 

Pen.  Your  schoole  terms  are  too  troublesome. 

Org.  What  heaven 

Retines  mortality  from  drosse  of  earth 
But  such  as  uncompounded  beauty  hallowes 
With  glorified  perfection. 

Pen.  Set  thy  wits 

In  a  lesse  wild  proportion. 

Org.  Time  can  never         ^5 

On  the  white  table  of  unguilty  faith 
Write  counterfeit  dishonour ;  turne  those  eyes, 
The  arrowes  of  pure  love,  upon  that  fire 
Which    once    rose  to  a   flame,  perfum'd  with 

vowes 
As  sweetly  scented  as  the  incense  smoking  30 

On  Vesta's  altars, 

the  holiest  odours,  virgin  teares, 
sprinkled,  like  dewes,  to  feed  'em, 
And  to  increase  their  fervour. 

Pen.  Be  not  franticke. 

Org.  All  pleasures  are  but  meere  imagination,  35 
Feeding  the  hungry  appetite  with  steame, 

31-33    On  Vesta  s  .   .   .   to  feed  ''em.      So  arranged  by  G.     In 
Q  this  passage  appears  thus: 

The  holiest  Artars,  Virgin  teares  (like 
On  Vesta  i  odours)  sprinkled  dewes  to  feed  'cm, 


sctvL  III]        ^{)t  broken  l^eart  i8i 

And  sight  of  banquet,  whilst  the  body  pines, 

Not  relishing  the  reall  tast  of  food : 

Such  is  the  leannesse  of  a  heart  divided 

From  entercourse  of  troth-contracted  loves ;         40 

No  horror  should  deface  that  precious  figure 

Seal'd  with  the  lively  stampe  of  equall  soules. 

Pen.   Away !   some   fury   hath    bewitch'd   thy 
tongue : 
The  breath  of  ignorance  that  flycs  from  thence, 
Ripens  a  knowledge  in  me  of  afflictions  45 

Above  all  suffrance.  —  Thing  of  talke,  be  gone  ! 
Be  gone,  without  reply  ! 

Org.  }k^  just,  Penthea, 

In  thy  commands  :    when   thou   send'st   forth   a 

dofjme 
Of  banishment,  know  first  on  whom  it  lights. 
Thus  I  take  off  the  shrowd,  in  which  my  cares  5° 
Are  folded  up  from  view  of  common  eyes. 

\_Throzvs  off  hii  scholar'' i  dress.^ 
What  is  thy  sentence  next  ? 

Pen.  Rash  man,  thou  layest 

A  blemish  on  mine  honour,  with  the  hazard 
Of  thy  too  desperate  life:  yet  I  professe. 
By  all  the  lawes  of  ceremonious  wedlocke,  55 

I  have  not  given  admittance  to  one  thought 
Of  female  change  since  cruelty  enforc'd 
Divorce  betwixt  my  body  and  my  heart : 
Why  would  you  fall  from  goodnesse  thus  ? 


i82  iTlif  13rciUfn  l^rart  ia.vh. 

Ore.  O^  rather 

Examine  nic  how  1  coiiKl  h\  c  to  say  60 

I  have  bin  n\uoh,  much   wrong'd.   *Tis  tor   thv 

sake 
I  put  on  this  inipostiirc  :  licarc  IVnthoa, 
If  thv  sot't  bosonic  he  not  tiunM  to  marble, 
Thou't  pittv  our  oalaniitics  ;  mv  interest 
Conhrmes  me  thou  art  mine  still. 

Rrj.  Lend  yonv  hand;   65 

With  both  ot"  mine  1  elaspe  it   thus  ;  thus   kisse 

'it; 
Thus  kneele  before  ve. 

Ofj.  You  instruet  mv  dutv. 

Ptn.   ^Ve  mav  stand  up.  Ha\e  vou  ought  else 
to  urge 
Of  new  demand  ?   As  for  the  old,  forget  it; 
'Tis  buried  in  an  everlasting  silenee,  "o 

And  shall   be,  shall   be  e\  er ;  what    more  would 
ye  ? 

Org.   I  would  possesse  mv  wife  ;  the  equity 
Of  vcrv  reason  bids  me. 

P.:;;.'  Is  that  all  ? 

Org.   Why  'tis  the  all  of  me  my  selfe. 

Ptn.  Remove 

Your  steps  some  distance  from  me;  at  this  space  75 
A  few  words  1  dare  change  ;  but  tirst  put  on 
Your  borrowed  shape. 

Org.  You  are  obey'd  ;  'tis  done. 


scrur  HI]        ^{j0  )3roken  t^eart  183 

Pen.    ffow,  r)rgilus,  by  promise  I  was  thine 
The   heavens   fJr;e   witnesse  ;   they  can  witnesse 

too 
A  ra[je  fjonc  on  my  triith  ;  hov/  J  doe   love  thee   80 
Yet,  Ormolus,  and  yet,  must  best  appeare 
Jn  tendering  thy  freedome ;  for  f  find 
'J  he  constant  preservation  of  thy  merit, 
i>y  thy  not  daring  to  attempt  my  fame 
With  injury  of  any  loose  conceit,  85 

Which  might  give  deeper  wounds  to  discontents, 
(jf^ntinue  this  faire  race;  then,  though  J  cannot 
Adde  to  thy  comfort,  yet  1  shall  more  often 
Remember  from  what  fortune  I  am  fallen, 
And  pitty  mine  owne  ruine.  —  Jvive,  live  happy,  90 
Ha[;{jy    in     thy    next    choyce,  that   thou   maist 

people 
'J'his  barren  age  wjth  vertues  in  thy  issue  ! 
And  f),  when  thou  art  married,  thinke  on  mc 
Wjth  mercy,  not  contempt  !    J  hope  thy  wife, 
Hearing  my  story,  will  not  scorne  my  fall.  95 

Now  let  us  part. 

(Jry.  Part'  yet  advise  thee  better: 

I^enthea  is  the  wife  to  Cjrgilus, 
And  ever  shall  be. 

Pen.  Never  shall  nor  will. 

Org.  How ! 

Pen.    Heareme  ;  in  a  word  J'le  tell  thee  why: 
The  virgin  dowry  which  my  birth  bcstow'd         100 


1 84  tIPtie  315roktn  l^eart         [act  n. 

Is  ravish'd  by  another:  my  true  love 
Abhorres  to  thinke  that  Orgilus  deserv'd 
No  better  favours  then  a  second  bed. 

Org.  I  must  not  take  this  reason. 

Pen.  To  confirme  it; 

Should  I  outlive  my  bondage,  let  me  meet  105 

Another  worse  then  this  and  lesse  desir'd, 
If  of  all  the  men  alive  thou  shouldst  but  touch 
My  lip  or  hand  againe ! 

Org.  Penthea,  now 

I  tell  'ee,  you  grow  wanton  in  my  sufferance : 
Come,  sweet,  th'art  mine. 

Pen.  Uncivill  sir,  forbeare,  110 

Or  I  can  turne  affection  into  vengeance  j 
Your  reputation,  if  you  value  any, 
Lyes  bleeding  at  my  feet.   Unworthy  man. 
If  ever  henceforth  thou  appeare  in  language. 
Message,  or  letter  to  betray  my  frailty,  115 

Pie  call  thy  former  protestations  lust. 
And  curse  my  starres  for  forfeit  of  my  judge- 
ment. 
Goe  thou,  fit  onely  for  disguise  and  walkes. 
To  hide  thy  shame:  this  once  I  spare  thy  life. 
I  laugh  at  mine  owne  confidence;  my  sorrowesizo 
By  thee  are  made  inferiour  to  my  fortunes. 
If  ever  thou  didst  harbour  worthy  love, 
Dare  not  to  answer.  My  good  Genius  guide  me, 

107  the.     G-D  omits. 


Scene  III.]  tCfje  BrOfeeU  ^tUtt  1 85 

That  I  may  never  see  thee  more  !  —  Goe  from 
me. 
Org.   V  [1]  e  teare  my  vaile  of  politicke  French 

off,  ,25 

And  stand  up  like  a  man  resolv'd  to  doe  : 
Action,  not  words,  shall  shew  me.  O  Penthea! 

Exif  Orgilus. 
Pen.  'A  sigh'd  my  name,  sure,  as  he  parted 
from  me : 
I  feare  I  was  too  rough.   Alas,  poore  gentleman, 
'A  look'd  not  like  the  ruines  of  his  youth,  130 

But  like  the  ruines  of  those  ruines.   Honour, 
How  much  we  fight  with  weaknesse  to  preserve 
thee  ! 

Enter  Bassanes  and  Grausis. 
Bassanes.    ¥ye  on   thee !    damb   thee,   rotten 
magat,  damb  thee ! 
Sleepe  ?  sleepe  at  court  ?  and  now  ?  Aches,  con- 
vulsions, 
Impostumes,   rhemes,   gouts,   palsies,  clog   thy 

bones  13^ 

A  dozen  yeeres  more  yet ! 

Grausis.  Now  y'are  in  humors. 

Bass.  Shee's  by  her  selfe,  there's  hope  of  that  j 
shee's  sad  too ; 
Shee*s  in  strong  contemplation ;  yes,  and  fixt : 
The  signes  are  wholesome. 

Grau.  Very  wholsome,  truly. 


i86  iTlif  13rohfn  Drart  (ac-tii. 

Bass.   Hold  vour  chops,  night  marc  !  —  L;uiv, 

come  ;  vour  brother  140 

Is  carried  to  his  closet ;  vou  must  thither. 

Ft-n.   Not  well,  mv  lord  ? 

Biiss.  A  sudden  fit;  'twill  off; 

Some  surfeit  or  disorder.  —  How  doest,  deerest  ? 

Pcft.   Your  newes  is  none  o'  th'  best, 
[^f-] cfittT  Propbilus. 

Prop}?.  The  chiete  of  men, 

The  excellentest  Ithocles,  desires  145 

Your  presence,  madam. 

Bass.  We  are  hasting:  to  him. 

PtTi.   In  vainewe  labour  in  this  course  of  life 
To  piece  our  journey  out  at  length,  or  crave 
Respite  oi  breath  ;  our  home  is  in  the  grave. 

Bass.   Perfect  philosophy:  then  let  us  care       150 
To  live  so  that  our  reckonings  may  fall  even 
When  w'are  to  make  account. 

Prop}?.  He  cannot  feare 

Who  builds  on  noble  grounds :  sicknesse  or  paine 
Is  the  deservers  exercise ;  and  such 
Your  vertuous  brother  to  the  world  is  knowne.  155 
Speake  comfort  to  him,  ladv ;  be  all  gentle : 
Starres  fall  but  in  the  grossenesse  of  our  sight; 
A  good  man  dying,  th'  earth  doth  lose  a  light. 

Exeunt  omnes, 

150-152  then  let .  .    .  account.     G-D  gives  this  to  PcnthtM. 


ACTUS  TERTIUS:  SCAENA  PRIMA. 

\T^he  study  of  "Tecnicus.l 

Enter  Tecnicusy  and  Orgilus  in  his  owne  shape. 

Tecnicus.   Be  well  advis'd;  let  not   a  resolu- 
tion 
Of  giddy  rashncssc  choake  the  breath  of  reason. 

Orgilus.   It  shall  not,  most   sage  master. 

Teen.  I  am  jealous  : 

For  if  the  borrowed  shape  so  late  put  on 
Inferr'd  a  consequence,  we  must  conclude  5 

Some  violent  designe  of  sudden  nature 
Hath  shooke  that  shadow  (jff,  to  flye  upon 
A  new-hatch'd  execution.   Orgilus, 
Take  heed  thou  hast  not,  under  our  integrity, 
Shrowded  unlawfull  plots  :  our  mortall  eyes  10 

Pierce  not  the  secrets  of  your  hearts  j  the  gods 
Are  onely  privie  to  them. 

Org.  Learned  Tecnicus, 

Such   doubts   are  causelesse ;   and  to  cleere  the 

truth 
From    misconceit,  the   present  state  commands 

me. 
The  Prince  of  Argos  comes  himselfe  in  person    15 
In  quest  of  great  Calantha  for  his  bride, 

1 1  hearti.    G-D,  heart. 


1 88  ®l;e  llBrohcn  Uncart         iact  m. 

Our  kingdomes  heire  ;  besides,  mine  onely  sister 

Euphrania  is  dispos'd  to  Prophilus  ; 

Lastly,  the  king  is  sending  letters  for  me 

To  Athens  for  my  quicke  repaire  to  court :  20 

Please  to  accept  these  reasons. 

Teen.  Just  ones,  Orgilus. 

Not  to  be  contradicted :  yet  beware 
Of  an  unsure  foundation;  no  faire  colours 
Can  fortifie  a  building  faintly  joynted. 
I  have  observ'd  a  growth  in  thy  aspect  25 

Of  dangerous  extent,  sudden,  and,  looke  too*t  ! 
I  might  adde  certaine  — 

Org.  My  aspect  ?   Could  art 

Runne  through  mine  inmost  thoughts,  it  should 

not  sift 
An  inclination  there  more  then  what  suited 
With  justice  of  mine  honour. 

Teen.  I  beleeve  it.  30 

But  know  then,  Orgilus,  what  honour  is : 
Honour  consists  not  in  a  bare  opinion 
By  doing  any  act  that  feeds  content ; 
Brave  in  appearance,  'cause  we  thinke  it  brave : 
Such  honour  comes  by  accident,  not  nature,  35 

Proceeding  from  the  vices  of  our  passion, 
Which    makes   our  reason   drunke.     But   reall 

honour 
Is  the  reward  of  vertue,  and  acquir'd 
By  justice  or  by  valour  which  for  bases 


Scene  I]  tET^f  llBrofeeix  f[}tnvt  189 

Hath  justice  to  uphold  it.   He  then  failes  40 

In  honour,  who  for  lucre  [or]  revenge 
Commits  thefts,  murthers,  treasons,  and  adulter- 
ies. 
With  such  like,  by  intrenching  on  just   lawes. 
Whose  sov'raignty  is  best  preserved  by  justice. 
Thus,  as  you  see  how  honour  must  be  grounded  45 
On  knowledge,  not  opinion, —  for  opinion 
Relyes  on  probability  and  accident. 
But  knowledge  on  necessity  and  truth,  — 
I  leave  thee  to  the  fit  consideration 
Of  what  becomes  the  grace  of  reall  honour,  50 

Wishing  successe  to  all  thy  vertuous  meanings. 
Org.  The  gods  increase  thy  wisdome,  reverend 
oracle. 
And  in  thy  precepts  make  me  ever  thrifty ! 

Exii  Org. 
Teen.   I  thanke  thy  wish.  —  Much  mystery  of 
fate 
Lyes  hid  in  that  mans  fortunes ;  curiosity  55 

May  lead  his  actions  into  rare  attempts; 
But  let  the  gods  be  moderators  still; 
No  humane  power  can  prevent  their  will. 

Enter  Armostes. 
From  whence  come  'ee  ? 

Armostes.         From  King  Amyclas,  —  pardon 
My  interruption  of  your  studies. — Here,  60 

41   \or\     So  G-D.  Q,  of. 


190  ®l)r  315]t:okcn  Uncart         iactiii. 

In  this  seal'd  box,  he  sends  a  treasure  deare 
To  him  as  his  crowne ;  'a  prayes  your  grav^ity 
You  would  examine,  ponder,  sift,  and  bolt 
The  pith  and  circumstance  of  every  tittle 
The  scroll  within  containes. 

Teen.  What  is't,  Armostes  ?   65 

Anno,  It  is  the  health  of  Sparta,  the  kings  life, 
Sinewes  and  safety  of  the  common-wealth  ; 
The  summe  of  what  the  oracle  deliver'd 
When  last  he  visited  the  propheticke  temple 
At  Delphos  :  what  his  reasons  are  for  which         70 
After  so  long  a  silence  he  requires 
You  counsaile  now,  grave  man,  his  majesty 
Will  soone  himselfe  acquaint  you  with. 

Teen,  Apollo 

Inspire  my  intellect !  — The  Prince  of  Argos 
Is  entertain'd  ? 

Artno.  He  is ;  and  has  demanded         75 

Our  princesse  for  his  wife ;  which  I  conceive 
One  speciall  cause  the  king  importunes  you 
For  resolution  of  the  oracle. 

Teen.   My  duty  to  the  king,  good  peace  to 
Sparta, 
And  faire  day  to  Armostes  ! 

Armo.  Like  to  Tecnicus  !  80 

Exeunt. 


sciN£  II.]        tCtje  llBrofeen  l^eart  191 

[SCENA  SECUNDA.   Ithodes' apartment  in  the 
pa/ace.^ 

Soft  musicke.    A  song. 
Can  you  paint  a  thought  ?  or  number 
Every  fancy  in  a  slumber? 
Can  you  count  soft  minutes  roving 
From  a  dyals  point  by  moving  ? 
Can  you  graspe  a  sigh  ?  or,  lastly,  5 

Rob  a  virgins  honour  chastly? 
Noy  O,  no  !  yet  you  may 

Sooner  doe  both  that  and  this. 
This  and  that,  and  never  misse. 
Then  by  any  praise  display  10 

Beauties  beauty,  such  a  glory 
As  beyond  all  fate,  all  story. 
All  armes,  all  arts. 
All  loves,  all  hearts. 
Greater  then  those,  or  they,  15 

Doe,  shall,  and  must  obey. 

Duringwhich  time,  enters Prophilus,  Bassanes,  Penthea, 
Grausis, passing  over  the  stage;  Bassanes  and  Grau- 
sis  enter  againe  softly,  stealing  to  severall  stands, 
and  listen. 

Bassanes.  All  silent,  calme,  secure.  —  Grausis, 
no  creaking  ? 
No  noyse  ?    dost  heare  nothing  ? 

Grausis.  Not  a  mouse, 

Or  whisper  of  the  winde. 


192  ^Uf  BroUrn  ll)rart         [actiii. 

Bass.  The  floorc  is  matted. 

The  bed-posts  sure  are  Steele  or  marble.  —  Soiil- 

diers  20 

Should  not  affect,  me  thinkes,  straines  so  efFem- 

iiuite  -, 
Sounds  of  such  delicacy  are  but  fawnings 
Upon  the  sloth  of  luxury  :  they  heighten 
Cinders  of  covert  lust  up  to  a  flame. 

Grau.   What  doe  you  meane,  my  lord  ?  Speak 

low  ;  that  gabling  25 

Of  yours  will  but  undoe  us. 

Bass.  Chamber-combats 

Are  felt,  not  hard. 

Pro.  [ivithifi^ .      'A  wakes. 
Bass.  What's  that  ? 

Ithodes  \ivithhr\.  Who's  there 

Sister?  All  quit  the  roome  else. 

Bass,  'Tis  consented  ! 

\Re-'\eutcr  Prophilus. 

Proph.  Lord  Bassanes,  your  brother  would  be 
private, 
We  must   forbeare ;  his  sleepe  hath  newly  left 

him.  30 

Please  'ee  withdraw  ? 

Bass.  By  any  meanes;  'tis  fit.. 

Proph.   Pray,  gentlewoman,  walke  too. 
Grau.  Yes,  1  will,  sir. 

Exeunt  omnes. 


sctNF  III         ^(je  liBrokm  i^eart  193 

^T/pe  scene  openi\;  Ithocles  discovered  in  a  chayre^  and 
Penlhea. 

hho.   Sit  nearer,  sister,  to  mc;  nearer  yet. 
We  had  one  fatJier,  in  one  wrmihe  tooke  life, 
Were  hrr^ught  u[)  twins  together,  yet  have  liv'd   35 
At  distance  like  two  strangers.    1  could  wish 
That  the  first  pillow  whereon  J  was  cradell'd 
Had  prov'd  to  me  a  grave. 

I*i:nthea.  You  had  heene  happy : 

Then  had  you  never  knowne  that  sinne  of  life 
Which  blots  all   following  glories  with  a  ven- 
geance, 40 
For  forfeiting  the  last  will  of  the  dead, 
From  whom  you  had  your  being. 

Ilhfj.  Sad  Penthea, 

Thou  canst  not  be  tof>  cruell  ;  my  rash  splcene 
Hath  with  a  violent  hand  pluck'd  from  thy  bosome 
A  lover-blest  heart,  to  grind  it  into  dust,  45 

For  which  mine's  now  a  breaking. 

Pen.  Not  yet,  heaven, 

I  doe  beseech  thee  !  first  let  some  wild  fires 
Scorch,  nr>t  cf;nsume  it  ;  may  the  heat  be  cherisht 
With  desires  infinite,  but  h(;pes  impossible  ! 

Itho.   Wrong'd  soule,  thy  prayers  are  heard. 

Pen,  Here,  lo,  1  breathe   50 

A  miserable  creature,  led  to  ruine 
iiy  an  unnaturall  brother. 

45   lo'ver-bUit.    G-D,  lovc-blciit. 


194  ®tic  llBroken  l^eart         [acthi. 

Itho.  I  consume  l 

In  languishing  affections  for  that  trespasse,  * 

Yet  cannot  dye. 

Pen.  The  handmaid  to  the  wages 

Of  country  toyle  drinkes  the  untroubled  streames  55 
With  leaping  kids  and  with  the  bleating  lambes, 
And  so  allayes  her  thirst  secure,  whiles  I 
Quench    my   hot  sighes   with    fleetings   of  my 
teares. 

Itho.  The  labourer  doth  eat  his  coursest  bread, 
Earn'd  with  his  sweat,  and  lyes  him  downe  to 

sleepe ;  60 

Which  every  bit  I  touch  turnes  in  digestion 
To  gall  as  bitter  as  Penthea's  curse. 
Put  me  to  any  pennance  for  my  tyranny, 
And  I  will  call  thee  mercifull. 

Pen.  Pray  kill  me, 

Rid  me  from  living  with  a  jealous  husband  ;         65 
Then  we  will  joyne  in  friendship,  be  againe 
Brother  and  sister.  —  Kill  me,  pray ;  nay,  will'ee  ? 

Itho.   How  does  thy  lord  esteeme  thee  ? 

Pen.  Such  an  one 

As  onely  you  have  made  me ;  a  faith-breaker, 
A  spotted  whore :  forgive  me,  I  am  one  70 

In  act,  not  in  desires,  the  gods  must  witnesse. 

55    Of .  .  .  streames.     So  arranged  by  G.     Q,  the  untroubled  of 
country  toyle,  drinkes  streames. 

61    Which.    G-D  While,    digestion.    Q,  dlsgestion. 
71   act.  Q,  art. 


Scene  u]        ^\)t  llBrokcit  l^cart  195 

Itho.   Thou  dost  be  lye  thy  friend. 

Pen.  I  doe  not,  Ithocles ; 

For  she  that's  wife  to  Orgilus,  and  lives 
In  knowne  adultery  with  Bassanes, 
Is  at  the  best  a  whore.   Wilt  kill  me  now  ?  75 

The  ashes  of  our  parents  will  assume 
Some  dreadfull  figure,  and  appeare  to  charge 
Thy  bloody  gilt,  that  hast  betray'd  their  name 
To  infamy  in  this  reproachfull  match. 

Itho.   After  my  victories  abroad,  at  home  80 

I  meet  despaire ;  ingratitude  of  nature 
Hath   made  my  actions  monstrous  :  thou  shalt 

stand 
A  deity,  my  sister,  and  be  worship'd 
For  thy  resolved  martyrdome;  wrong'd  maids 
And  married  wives  shall  to  thy  hallowed  shrine  85 
Offer  their  orisons,  and  sacrifice 
Pure  turtles  crown'd  with  mirtle,  if  thy  pitty 
Unto  a  yeelding  brothers  pressure  lend 
One  finger  but  to  ease  it. 

Pen.  O,  no  more  ! 

Jtho.   Death  waits  to  waft  me  to  the  Stygian 

bankes,  90 

And  free  me  from  this  chaos  of  my  bondage ; 
And  till  thou  wilt  forgive,  I  must  indure. 

Pen.   Who  is  the  saint  you  serve? 

Itho.  Friendship,  or  [nearness] 

93   nearness.   Supplied  from  G-D. 


196  ^^t  llBroUm  Jl?fart         [act  m. 

Of  birth  to  any  but  my  sister,  durst  not 

Have  rnovM  that  question  as  a  secret,  sister :        95 

I  dare  not  murmure  to  my  selfe. 

P^n.  Let  me. 

By  your  new  protestations  I  conjure  'ee, 
Partake  her  name. 

Itho.        Her  name,  —  *tis,  —  'tis,  I  dare  not. 

Pin.  All  your  respects  are  forg'd. 

Itbo.  They  arc  not.  —  Peace ! 

Calantha  is  the  princesse,  the  kings  daughter,     100 
Sole  heire  of  Sparta.  —  Me  most  miserable  ! 
Doe  I  now  love  thee  ?  for  my  injuries 
Revenge  thy  selfc  with  bravery,  and  gossip 
My  treasons  to  the  kings  eares.   Doe;  Calantha 
Knowes  it  not  yet,  nor  Prophilus,  my  nearest.    105 

Pen.  Suppose   you   were   contracted   to   her, 
would  it  not 
Split  even  your  very  soule  to  see  her  father 
Snatch  her  out  of  your  armes  against  her  will, 
And  force  her  on  the  Prince  of  Argos  ? 

Itho.  Trouble  not 

The  fountaines  of  mine  eyes  with  thine  owne 

story;  no 

I  sweat  in  blood  for't. 

Pen.  We  are  reconcil'd  : 

Alas,  sir,  being  children,  but  two  branches 

95  (fuestion   .    .    .  sister.    G-D  puts  a  semicolon  after  questiotiy 
changes  as  to  'm,  and  puts  a  comma  after  sister. 


Scene  iL]        ^\)t  Brofeen  l^eaw  197 

Of  one  stockc,  'tis  not  fit  we  should  divide : 
Have  comfort,  you  may  find  it. 

Itho.  Yes,  in  thee : 

Onely  in  thee,  Penthea  mine. 

Pen.  If  sorrowcs  115 

Have  not  too  much  dull'd  my  infected  braine, 
rie  chcere  invention  for  an  active  straine. 

Itho.   Mad  man  !  why  have  I  wrong'd  a  maid 
so  excellent ! 

Enter   Bassanes  with  a  ponyardy    Prophilusy  Groneas, 
Hemophilic  and  Grausis. 
Bass.  I  can  forbeare  no  longer;   more,  I  will 
not: 
Keepe  off  your  hands,  or  fall  upon  my  point,      no 
Patience  is  tye*d,  for  like  a  slow-pac'd  asse 
Ye  ride  my  easie  nature,  and  proclaime 
My  sloth  to  vengeance  a  reproach  and  property. 
Itho.   The  meaning  of  this  rudenesse  ? 
Proph.  Hee's  distracted. 

Pen.   O  my  griev'd  lord  ! 

Grau.  Sweet  lady,  come  not  neere  him  5125 

He  holds  his  perilous  weapon  in  his  hand 
To  pricke  'a  cares  not  whom,  nor  where,  —  see, 
sec,  see ! 
Bass.   My  birth  is  noble :  though  the  popular 
blast 
Of  vanity,  as  giddy  as  thy  youth. 
Hath  rear'd  thy  name  up  to  bestride  a  cloud,      130 


198  ^l)c  Brol^rn  ll)fart         iact  m. 

Or  progresse  in  the  chariot  of  the  sunnc, 

I  am  no  clod  of  trade,  to  lackey  pride, 

Nor,  like  your  slave  of  expectation,  wait 

The  haudy  hinges  of  your  dores,  or  whistle 

For  mysticall  conveyance  to  your  bed-sports.      135 

Groneas.   Fine  humors !    They  become  him. 

Hemophil.  How  'a  stares. 

Struts,  puffes,  and  sweats :  most  admirable  lunacy  ! 

Itbo.   But   that  1    may  conceive   the  spirit  of 
wine 
Has  tooke  possession  of  your  soberer  custome, 
rde  say  you  were  unmannerly. 

Pen.  Deare  brother!  140 

Bass.  Unmannerly! — Mew,  kitling! — Smooth 
formality 
Is  usher  to  the  ranknesse  of  the  blood. 
But   impudence   beares  up   the   traine.    Indeed, 

sir, 
Your  fiery  mettall  or  your  springall  blaze 
Of  huge  renowne  is  no  sufficient  royalty  145 

Xo  print  upon  my  forehead  the  scorne,  ''  cuck- 
old." 

Itho.   His  jealousie  has  rob'd  him  of  his  wits; 
'A  talkes  'a  knowes  not  what. 

Bass.  Yes,  and  'a  knowes 

To  whom  'a  talkes ;  to  one  that  franks  his  lust 
In  swine-secUrity  of  bestiall  incest.  150 

Itho.   Hah,  devill  I 


Scene  II.]  ^\)t  WtOlXtM  fi^tUtt  199 

Briss.  I  will  hallo't,  though  I  blush  more 

To  name  the  filthinesse  than  thou  to  act  it. 

Itho.    Monster!  \_Drazi;s  his  szvord.'] 

Proph.  Sir,  by  our  friendship  — 

Pen.  \^y  our  bloods, 

Will  you  quite  both  undoe  us,  brother? 

Grau.  Out  on  him. 

These  are  his  megrims,  firks,  and  melancholies.  1 5*; 

Hem.   Well  said,  old  touch-hole. 

Gron.  Kick  him  out  at  dores. 

Pen.   With  favour,  let  me  speake.  —  My  lord, 
what  slacknesse 
In  my  obedience  hath  deserv'd  this  rage .? 
Except  humility  and  silent  duty 
Have  drawne  on  your  unquiet,  my  simplicity       160 
NeVe  studied  your  vexation. 

Bass.  Light  of  beauty, 

Deale  not  ungently  with  a  desperate  wound  ! 
No  breach  of  reason  dares  make  warre  with  her 
Whose  lookes  are  soveraignty,  whose  breath   is 

balme  : 
O  that  I  could  preserve  thee  in  fruition  165 

As  in  devotion ! 

Pen.  Sir,  may  cwQvy  evill 

Lock'd  in  Pandora's  box,  showre,  in  your  pres- 
ence. 
On  my  unhappy  head,  if  since  you  made  me 

159   silent.    So  G-D.    Q,  sinlcnt. 


200  tlTljc  ^roUcn  ll;f avt  (Act  m. 

A  partner  in  your  bed,  I  have  bcene  faulty 
In  one  unscemely  thought  against  your  honour.  170 
Jtho.    Purge  not  his  griefes,  Penthea. 
Bass.  Yes,  say  on. 

Excellent  creature!  —  Good,  he  not  a  hinderance 
To  peace  and  praise  of  vertue.  —  ()  my  senses 
Are    charm'd    with    sounds    caelestiall !  —  On, 

deare,  on  ; 
I  never  gave  you  one  ill  word;   say,  did  I  ?  175 

Indeed  I  did  not. 

Pen.  Nor,  by  Juno's  forehead, 

Was  I  e're  guilty  of  a  wanton  error. 
Bass.  O  goddesse  !  let  me  kneele. 
Grau.  Alas,  kind  an i mall. 

Itho.   No,  but  for  pennance. 
Bass.  Noble  sir,  what  is  it  ? 

With  gladnesse  T  embrace  it ;  yet,  pray  let  not   180 
My  rashnesse  teach  you  to  be  too  unmercifull. 
Itho.   When  you  shall  shew  good  proofe  that 
manly  wisdome. 
Not  over-sway'd  by  passion  or  opinion, 
Knowes   how   to   lead    [your]  judgement,  then 

this  lady, 
Your  wife,  my  sister,  shall  returne  in  safety         185 
Home  to  be  guided  by  you  ;  but,  till  first 
I  can  out  of  cleare  evidence  approve  it, 
Shee  shall  be  my  care. 

184  your.   Supplied  from  G-D. 


Scene  II]  ^i)t  WtOktXl  fQtm  201 

Bass,  Rip  my  bosome  up, 

rie  stand  the  execution  with  a  constancy  : 
This  torture  is  unsufferablc. 

Itho.  Well,  sir,  190 

I  dare  not  trust  her  to  your  fury. 

Bass.  But 

Penthea  sayes  not  so. 

Pen.  She  needs  no  tongue 

To  plead  excuse  who  never  purpos'd  wrong. 

He/n.  Virgin  of  reverence  and  antiquity, 
Stay  you  behind.  19S 

Gron,    The  court  wants  not  your  diligence. 
Exeunt  omnes,  sed  Bass.  ^  Graus. 

Grau.  What  will  you  doe,  my  lord  ?  my  la- 
dy's gone  ; 
I  am  deny'd  to  follow. 

Bass.  I  may  see  her. 

Or  speake  to  her  once  more. 

Grau.  And  feele  her  too,  man  ; 

Be  of  good  cheare,  she's  your  owne  flesh  and 

bone.  ^°° 

Bass.  Diseases  desperate  must  find  cures  alike  : 
She  swore  she  has  bccne  true. 

Grau.  True,  on  my  modesty. 

Bass.   Let  him  want  truth  who  credits  not  her 
vowes ! 
Much  wrong  I  did  her,  but  her  brother  infinite; 
Rumor  will  voyce  me  the  contempt  of  manhood,  205 


202  Wi)t  Broken  l^eart         (act  m. 

Should  I  run  on  thus.    Some  way  I  must  try 
To  out-doe  art,  and  jealousie  [dejcry. 

Exeunt  omnes. 

SCENA   TERTIA.      [A  room  in  the  palace,'] 

Flourish.  Enter  AmyclaSy  Nearchus  leading  Calantha, 
ArmosteSf  Crotolon,  Euphranea,  Christalla,  Fhile- 
mdy  and  Amelus. 

Amyclas,  Cozen  of  Argos,  what  the  heavens 
have  pleas'd 
In  their  unchanging  counsels  to  conclude 
For  both  our kingdomesweale,  we  must  submit  to: 
Nor  can  we  be  unthankfull  to  their  bounties, 
Who,  when  we    were    even    creeping    to    our 

graves,  ^  5 

Sent  us  a  daughter,  in  whose  birth  our  hope 
Continues  of  succession.    As  you  are 
In  title  next,  being  grandchilde  to  our  aunt, 
So  we  in  heart  desire  you  may  sit  nearest 
Calantha's  love;  since  we  have  ever  vow'd  lo 

Not  to  inforce  affection  by  our  will. 
But  by  her  owne  choyce  to  confirme  it  gladly. 

Nearchus.  You  speake  the  nature  of  a  right 
just  father. 
I  come  not  hither  roughly  to  demand 

207  jealousie  decry.   Emendation  made  by  G-D.   Q,  cry  a  jeal- 
ousie. 

5  graves.    So  Q  and  G;  changed  by  D  in  G-D  to  grave. 


Scene  III.]  tE^j^e  BtOfem  ^t^tt  203 

My  cozens  thraldome,  but  to  free  mine  owne  :     15 
Report  of  great  Calantha's  beauty,  vertue, 
Sweetnesse,  and  singular  perfections,  courted 
All  eares  to  credit  what  I  finde  was  publish'd 
By  constant  truth :   from  which,  if  any  service 
Of  my  desert  can  purchase  faire  construction,       20 
This  lady  must  command  it. 

Calantha.  Princely  sir. 

So  well  you  know  how  to  professe  observance 
That  you  instruct  your  hearers  to  become 
Practitioners  in  duty;  of  which  number 
rie  study  to  be  chiefe. 

Near.  Chiefe,  glorious  virgine,  *S 

In  my  devotions,  as  in  all  mens  wonder. 

Amy.   Excellent  cozen,  we  deny  no  libertie ; 
Use  thine  owne  opportunities. — Armostes, 
We  must  consult  with  the  philosophers ; 
The  businesse  is  of  weight. 

Armostes.  Sir,  at  your  pleasure.   3° 

Amy.  You  told  me,  Crotolon,  your  Sonne's 
returned 
From  Athens  :  wherefore  comes  'a  not  to  court 
As  we  commanded  ? 

Crotolon.  He  shall  soone  attend 

Your  royall  will,  great  sir. 

Amy.  The  marriage 

Betweene  young  Prophilus  and  Euphranea,  35 

Tasts  of  too  much  delay. 


204  ^\)t  llBrofeen  i^eart        iact  m. 

Crot.  My  lord  — 

^my.  Some  pleasures 

At  celebration  of  It  would  give  life 
To  th'  entertainment  of  the  prince  our  kinsman  ; 
Our  court  weares  gravity  more  then  we  rellish. 

j^rm.  Yet  the  heavens  smile  on  all  your  high 

attempts,  40 

Without  a  cloud. 

Crot.  So  may  the  gods  protect  us ! 

Cal.  A  prince,  a  subject  ? 

Near,  Yes,  to  beauties  scepter ; 

As  all  hearts  kneele,  so  mine. 

Cai.  You  are  too  courtly. 

\_Enter~\  to  therriy  Ithoclesy  OrgiluSy  Prophilus. 

Ithocles.    Your  safe  returne  to  Sparta  is  most 
welcome ; 
I  joy  to  meet  you  here,  and  as  occasion  45 

Shall  grant  us  privacy,  will  yeeld  you  reasons 
Why  I  should  covet  to  deserve  the  title 
Of  your  respected  friend  ;  for  without  comple- 
ment 
Beleeve  it,  Orgllus,  'tis  my  ambition. 

Orgilus.    Your  lordship  may   command  me, 
your  poore  servant.  50 

Itho.      \aside~\ .     So    amorously    close  ?  —  So 
soone  ?  —  my  heart ! 

Prophilus,  What  sudden  change  is  next  ? 

51   close.   Q,  close  close. 


Scene  JII.]  X!^)^t  WlO\itXl  fQtUt  205 

Itho.  Life  to  the  king, 

To  whom  I  here  present  this  noble  gentleman, 
New  come  from  Athens ;  royall  sir,  vouchsafe 
Your  gracious  hand  in  favour  of  his  merit.  55 

Crot.  ^aside'\.   My  Sonne  preferr'd  by  Ithocles! 

Jmy.  Our  bounties 

Shall  open  to  thee,  Orgilus ;  for  instance,  — 
Harke  in  thine  eare, —  if  out  of  those  inventions 
Which  flow  in  Athens,  thou  hast  there  ingrost 
Some  rarity  of  wit  to  grace  the  nuptials  60 

Of  thy  faire  sister,  and  renowne  our  court 
In  th'  eyes  of  this  young  prince,  we  shall  be 

debtor 
To  thy  conceit  j  thinke  on't. 

Org.  Your  highnesse  honors  me. 

Near.  My  tongue  and  heart  are  twins. 

Cal.  A  noble  birth, 

Becomming  such  a  father.  —  Worthy  Orgilus,    65 
You  are  a  guest  most  wish'd  for. 

Org.  May  my  duty 

Still  rise  in  your  opinion,  sacred  princesse  ! 

Itho.  Euphranea's  brother,  sir,  a  gentleman 
Well  worthy  of  your  knowledge. 

Near.  We  embrace  him. 

Proud  of  so  deare  acquaintance. 

Jmy.  All  prepare  70 

For  revels  and  disport ;  the  joyes  of  Hymen, 
Like  Phoebus  in  his  lustre,  puts  to  flight 


2o6  {[Tljf  BroUrn  ilKart         |Act  m. 

All  mists  of  dulncssc  ;   crownc  the  hourcs  with 

gladiicssc  ; 
No  sounds  but  musickc,  no  discourse  but  mirth. 
Cal.       Thine   arme,   I    prethe,  Ithoclcs.  — 
Nay,  good  75 

My  lord,  keepe  on  your  way  ;  I  am  provided. 
Near.   I  dare  not  disobey. 
It  ho.  Most  heavenly  lady  !      Exeunt. 

[SCENA   yUARTA.    y/  room  in  the  house  of 
CrotoloH.^ 

Enter  Croto/on,  Orgilus, 

Crotolon.  The  king  hath  spoke  his  mind. 

Orgilus.  His  will  he  hath  ; 

But  were  it  lawfuU  to  hold  plea  against 
The  power  of  greatncsse,  not  the  reason,  haply 
Such  under-shrubs  as  subjects  sometimes  might 
Borrow  of  nature  justice,  to  informe  5 

That  licence  soveraignty  holds  without  checke 
Over  a  meeke  obedience. 

Crot.  How  resolve  you 

Touching  your  sisters  marriage  ?    Prophilus 
Is  a  deserving  and  a  hopefull  youth. 

Org.   I  envy  not  his  merit,  but  applaud  it ;        10 
Could  [wish]  him  thrift  in  all  his  best  desires, 
And  with  a  willingnesse  inleague  our  blood 
1 1  {wish].   So  G-D.  Q,  with. 


scxNK  iv.|        nPt)e  5i5roben  l^eart  207 

With  his,  for  purchase  of  full  growth  in  friend- 
ship. 
He  never  touch'd  on  any  wrong  that  malic'd 
The  honour  of  our  house,  nor  stirr'd  our  peace;   15 
Yet,  with  your  favour,  let  me  not  forget 
Under  whose  wing  he  gathers  warmth  and  com- 
fort, 
Whose   creature  he  is   bound,  made,  and   must 
live  so. 
Crot.   Sonne,  sonne,  I   find    in   thee   a   harsh 
condition  j 
No  curtesie  can  winne  it ;  'tis  too  ranckorous.      20 
Org.   Good   sir,  be  not    severe  in  your  con- 
struction ; 
I  am  no  stranger  to  such  easie  calmes 
As  sit  in  tender  bosomes  :  lordly  Ithocles 
Hath  grac'd  my  entertainment  in  abundance; 
Too  humbly  hath  descended  from  that  height       25 
Of  arrogance   and    spleene   which  wrought   the 

rape 
On  grievM  Penthea's  purity  :  his  scorne 
Of  my  untoward  fortunes  is  rcclaim'd 
Unto  a  courtship,  almost  to  a  fawning : 
rie  kisse  his  foot,  since  you  will  have  it  so.         3° 
Crot.  Since  I  will  have  it  so  ?   Friend,  I  will 
have  it  so 
Without  our  ruine  by  your  politike  plots, 

zij  courtihip.    Q,  coutship. 


2o8  tE\)t  Wi'olxtn  Harare         lAcrm. 

Or  Wolfe  of  hatred  snarling  in  your  breast. 
You  have  a  spirit,  sir,  have  ye  ?  a  familiar 
That  poasts  i'th'  ayre  for  your  intelligence  ?  35 

Some  such  hobgoblin  hurried  you  from  Athens, 
For  yet  you  come  unsent  for. 

Org.  If  unwelcome, 

I  might  have  found  a  grave  there. 

Crot.  Sure,  your  businesse 

Was    soone   dispatch'd,   or   your    mind    alter'd 

quickly. 
Org.  *Twas  care,  sir,  of  my  health  cut  short 

my  journey  ;  40 

For  there  a  generall  infection 
Threatens  a  desolation. 

Crot.  And  I  feare 

Thou  hast  brought  backe  a  worse  infection  with 

thee. 
Infection  of  thy  mind;  which,  as  thou  sayst. 
Threatens  the  desolation  of  our  family.  45 

Org.   Forbid    it,   our   deare   (jenius!      I    will 

rather 
Be  made  a  sacrifice  on  Thrasus  monument, 
Or  kneele  to  Ithocles  his  sonnc  in  dust. 
Then  wooe  a  fathers  curse.    My  sisters  marriage 
With  Prophilus  is  from  my  heart  coniirm'd :         5° 
May  I  live  hated,  may  I  dye  despis'd, 
If  I  omit  to  further  it  in  all 
That  can  concerne  me ! 


Scene  IV.|  ^^t  liBCOUm  ^tUtt  209 

Crot.  1  have  hccnc  too  rough. 

My  duty  to  my  king  made  me  so  earnest  j 
Excuse  it  (Jrgilus. 

Org.  Deare  sir, — 

Efitcr  to  theniy  Prophilusy    Euphranea^  IthoclcSy  Cro- 
tie  as  f    1 1  cm  op  hi  I. 

Crot.  Here  comes  55 

Euphraiiea,  with  Prophilus  and  Ithocles. 

Org.    Most  honored  !  —  ever  famous  ! 

Ithocles.  Your  true  friend  ; 

On  earth  not  any  truer.  —  With  smooth  eyes 
ivooke  on  this  worthy  couple  ;  your  consent 
Can  onely  make  them  one. 

Org.  They  have  it.  —  Sister,  60 

Thou  pawn'dst  to  me  an  oath,  of  which  ingage- 

ment 
I  never  will  release  thee,  if  thou  aym'st 
At  any  other  choyce  then  this. 

Kuphranea.  Deare  brother. 

At  him  or  none. 

Crot.  To  which  my  blessing's  added. 

Org.   Which,    till    a  greater  ceremony    per- 
fect, 65 
Euphranea,  lend  thy  hand ;   here,  take  her,  Pro- 
philus : 
Live  long  a  happy  man  and  wife ;  and  further. 
That  these  in  presence  may  conclude  an  omen, 
Thus  for  a  bridall  song  I  close  my  wishes  : 


2IO  ariir  llBrofem  Harare         iact  m. 

Comforts  lastingy  loves  increasing,  70 

Like  soft  houres  never  ceasing  ; 

Plenties  pleasure^  peace  complying 

Without  jarresy  or  tongues  envying  ; 

Hearts  by  holy  union  wedded  V 

More  then  theirs  by  customs  bedded ;  jr 

Fruitfull  issues  ;  life  so  graced. 

Not  by  age  to  be  defaced,  t 

Budding,  as  the  year e  ensu^  th,  \ 

Every  spring  another  youth : 

All  what  thought  can  adde  beside  80 

Crowne  this  bridegroome  and  this  bride! 

Prophilus.    You   have  seal'd  joy  close  to  my 
soule :   Euphranea, 
Now  I  may  call  thee  mine.  j 

Itho.  I  but  exchange 

One  good  friend  for  another. 

Org.  If  these  gallants 

Will  please  to  grace  a  poore  invention  85 

By  joyning  with  me  in  some  slight  devise, 
I'le  venture  on  a  straine  my  younger  dayes 
Have  studied  for  delight. 

Hemophil.  With  thankfull  willingnesse 

I  offer  my  attendance  ; 

Groneas.  No  endevour 

Of  mine  shall  faile  to  shew  itselfe. 

Itho.  We  will        90 

All  joyne  to  wait  on  thy  directions,  Orgilus. 


Scene  V.)         XE^)t  llBroUeix  l^eart  2  i  i 

Org.  O,  my   good   lord,  your  favours   flow 
towards 
A  too  unworthy  worme ;  but  as  you  please; 
I  am  what  you  will  shape  me. 

Itho.  A  fast  friend. 

Crot.   I  thanke  thee,  sonne,  for  this  acknowl- 
edgement ;  95 
It  is  a  sight  of  gladnesse. 

Org.  But  my  duty.      Exeunt  omnes. 

[SCENA    QUINTA    Calantha's  apartment 
in  the  palace.^ 

Enter  Calanthdy  Penthea,  Christ  allay  Philema. 

Calantha.   Who  e*re  would   speake  with   us, 
deny  his  entrance; 
Be  carefull  of  our  charge. 

Christalla.  We  shall,  madam. 

Cal.       Except  the  king  himselfe,  give  none 
admittance; 
Not  any. 

Philema.   Madam,  it  shall  be  our  care. 

Exeunt  ^Christalla  and  Philema. Ij^ 

Calantha^  Penthea. 

Cal.       Being  alone,  Penthea,  you  have  granted     5 
The  oportunity  you  sought,  and  might 
At  all  times  have  commanded. 

Penthea.  'Tis  a  benefit 


212  Wi^t  llBrofeen  fQtdxt        [act  m. 

Which  I  shall  owe  your  goodnesse  even  in  death 

for : 
My  glasse  of   life,  sweet   princesse,  hath  few 

minutes 
Remaining  to  runne  downe  ;  the  sands  are  spent;  lo 
For  by  an  inward  messenger  I  feele 
The  summons  of  departure  short  and  certaine. 

Ca/.       You  feed  too  much  your  melancholly. 

Pen.  Glories 

Of  humane  greatnesse  are  but  pleasing  dreames 
And  shadowes  soone  decaying:  on  the  stage         15 
Of  my  mortality  my  youth  hath  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawne  out  at  length 
By  varied  pleasures,  sweetned  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragicall  in  issue  :  beauty,  pompe. 
With  every  sensuality  our  giddinesse  20 

Doth  frame  an  idoll,  are  unconstant  friends 
When  any  troubled  passion  makes  assault 
On  the  unguarded  castle  of  the  mind. 

Ca/.       Contemne  not  your  condition  for  the 
proofe 
Of  bare  opinion  onely :  to  what  end  25 

Reach  all  these  morall  texts? 

Pen.  To  place  before  'ee 

A  perfect  mirror,  wherein  you  may  see 
How  weary  I  am  of  a  lingring  life, 
Who  count  the  best  a  misery. 

Cal.  Indeed 


Scene  V.J  Wi)t  WtOktXl  l^eHtt  2 1 3 

You  have  no  little  cause:  yet  none  so  great  30 

As  to  distrust  a  remedy. 

Pen.  That  remedy 

Must  be  a  winding  sheet,  a  fold  of  lead, 
And  some  untrod-on  corner  in  the  earth. 
Not  to  detaine  your  expectation,  princesse, 
I  have  an  humble  suit. 

Cal.  Speake ;  I  enjoy  it.  35 

Pen,   Vouchsafe,  then,  to  be  my  executrix, 
And  take  that  trouble  on  'ee  to  dispose 
Such  legacies  as  I  bequeath  impartially : 
I  have  not  much  to  give,  the  paines  are  easie; 
Heaven  will  reward  your  piety,  and  thanke  it       40 
When  I  am  dead ;  for  sure  I  must  not  live ; 
I  hope  I  cannot. 

Cal.  Now,  beshrew  thy  sadnesse; 

Thou  turn'st  me  too  much  woman. 

Pen.    l^aside'j  .  Her  faire  eyes 

Melt  into  passion.  —  Then  I  have  assurance 
Encouraging  my  boldnesse.  —  In  this  paper  45 

My   will    was    character'd;    which    you,    with 

pardon. 
Shall  now  know  from  mine  owne  mouth. 

Cal.  Talke  on,  prethe ; 

It  is  a  pretty  earnest. 

Pen.  I  have  left  me 

35  enjoy.      So  Q  and  G-D.     D  suggests  ''enjoin.*'      W.  sub- 
stitutes and  for  /. 


214  ^\)t  llBrofeen  fQtntt        i  act  m. 

But    three    poore   jewels    to    bequeath.      The 

first  is 
My  youth  ;  for  though  I  am  much  old  in  griefes,  50 
In  yeares  I  am  a  child. 

Cal.  To  whom  that  ? 

Pen.  To  virgin-wives,  such  as  abuse  not  wed- 
locke 
By  freedome  of  desires,  but  covet  chiefly 
The  pledges  of  chast  beds  for  tyes  of  love. 
Rather  than  ranging  of  their  blood ;  and  next       55 
To  married  maids,  such  as.preferre  the  number 
Of  honorable  issue  in  their  vertues 
Before  the  flattery  of  delights  by  marriage : 
May  those  be  ever  young ! 

Cal.  A  second  Jewell 

You  meane  to  part  with. 

Pen.  'Tis  my  fame,  I  trust  60 

By  scandall  yet  untouch'd ;  this  I  bequeath 
To  Memory,  and  Times  old  daughter.  Truth. 
If  ever  my  unhappy  name  find  mention 
When  I  am  falne  to  dust,  may  it  deserve 
Beseeming  charity  without  dishonour.  65 

Cal.   How  handsomely  thou  playst  with  harm- 
lesse  sport 
Of  meere  imagination  ;  speake  the  last, 
I  strangely  like  thy  will. 

Pen.  This  Jewell,  madam, 

5 1   To  ivkom  that  ?  G-D,  To  whom  that  [jewel]  ? 


scFNE  v.]         tn^ije  115rofeen  i^eart  215 

Is  dearely  precious  to  me ;  you  must  use 
The  best  of  your  discretion  to  imploy 
This  gift  as  I  entend  it. 

CaL  Doe  not  doubt  me. 

Pen.  'Tis  long  agone  since  first  I  lost  my 
heart : 
Long  I  have  livM  without  it,  else  for  certaine 
I  should  have  given  that  too ;  but  in  stead 
Of  it,  to  great  Calantha,  Sparta's  heire,  i  75 

By  service  bound  and  by  affection  vowM, 
I  doe  bequeath  in  holiest  rites  of  love 
Mine  onely  brother,  Ithocles. 

CaL  What  saydst  thou  ? 

Pen,   Impute  not,  heaven-blest  lady,  to  am- 
bition 
A  faith  as  humbly  perfect  as  the  prayers  80 

Of  a  devoted  suppliant  can  indow  it : 
Looke  on  him,  princesse,  with  an  eye  of  pitty; 
How  like  the  ghost  of  what  he  late  appeared 
A*  moves  before  you. 

CaL  Shall  I  answer  here, 

Or  lend  my  eare  too  grossely  ? 

Pen.  First,  his  heart      85 

Shall   fall   in   cynders,   scorchM   by    your    dis- 

daine, 
E're  he  will  dare,  poore  man,  to  ope  an  eye 
On    these    divine    lookes,    but    with    low-bent 
thoughts 


2i6  tirije  Broken  J^eart         [Actih. 

Accusing  such  presumption ;  as  for  words, 
A'  dares  not  utter  any  but  of  service :  9° 

Yet  this  lost  creature  loves  'ee.  —  Be  a  princesse 
In  sweetnesse  as  in  blood;  give  him  his  doome. 
Or  raise  him  up  to  comfort. 

Cal,  What  new  change 

Appeares  in  my  behaviour,  that  thou  dar'st 
Tempt  my  displeasure  ? 

Pen.  I  must  leave  the  world  95 

To  revell  [in]  Elizium,  and  'tis  just 
To  wish  my  brother  some  advantage  here ; 
Yet,  by  my  best  hopes,  Ithocles  is  ignorant 
Of  this  pursuit.   But  if  you  please  to  kill  him. 
Lend  him  one  angry  looke  or  one  harsh  word,   loo 
And  you  shall    soone  conclude  how  strong  a 

power 
Your  absolute  authority  holds  over 
His  life  and  end. 

Cal.  You  have  forgot,  Penthea, 

How  still  I  have  a  father. 

Pen.  But  remember 

I  am  a  sister,  though  to  me  this  brother  105 

Hath  beene,  you  know,  unkinde,  O,  most  un- 
kinde  ! 

Cal.  Christalla,   Philema,  where  are   'ee  ?  — 
Lady, 
Your  checke  lyes  in  my  silence. 

96  in.      Supplied  in  G-D 


Scene  V.]  tKlje  ^tOfeen  ^tUt  2 1 J 

\^Re-'\enter  Christalla  and  Philema. 
Both.  Madam,  here. 

Cal.  I  thinke  'ee  sleepe,  'ee  drones ;  wait  on 
Penthea 
Unto  her  lodging.  —  \_Aside^    Ithocles  ?  wrong'd 
lady! 
Pen,  My  reckonings  are  made  even  ;  death  or 
fate 
Can  now  nor  strike  too  soone  nor  force  too  late. 

Exeunt, 


no 


ACTUS  QUARTUS,  SCAENA 
PRIMA 

Ithocles  apartment  in  the  palace. 
Enter  Ithocles  and  Armostes. 

Ithocles.   Forbeare  your  inquisition  :  curiosity 
Is  of  too  subtill  and  too  searching  nature, 
In  feares  of  love  too  quicke,  too  slow  of  credit : 
I  am  not  what  you  doubt  me. 

Armostes.  Nephew,  be,  then. 

As  I  would   wish;  —  all   is    not    right,  —  good 

heaven  5 

Confirme  your  resolutions  for  dependance 
On  worthy  ends  which  may  advance  your  quiet ! 

Itho.   I  did  the  noble  Orgilus  much  injury. 
But  gricv'd  Pcnthea  more:  I  now  repent  it; 
Now,  uncle,  now  ;  this  "  now"  is  now  too  late  :      lo 
So  provident  is  folly  in  sad  issue. 
That  after-wit,  like  bankrupts  debts,  stand  tallyed 
Without  all  possibilities  of  payment. 
Sure  he's  an  honest,  very  honest  gentleman ; 
A  man  of  single  meaning. 

Arm.  I  belceve  it :  15 

Yet,  nephew,  'tis  the  tongue  informes  our  eares  ; 
Our  eyes  can  never  pierce  into  the  thoughts, 


Scene  I.)  ^Ift  WtO^SitXl  ^tUtt  2  1 9 

For  they  are  lodg'd  too  inward  :  —  but  I  question 
No  truth  in  Orgilus.  —  The  princesse,  sir! 
It  ho.  The  Princesse  ?  ha  ! 

Jrm.  With  her,  the  Prince  of  Argos.  20 

E?iter  Ne  arc  bus  leading  Calanthay  AmeluSy 
Christalldy  Philema. 
Nearchus.   Great   faire  one,  grace  my  hopes 
with  any  instance 
Of  livery,  from  the  allowance  of  your  favour; 
This  little  sparke.  — 

\_Attempts  to  take  a  ring  from  her  finger. '\ 
Calantha,  A  toy  ! 

Near.  Love  feasts  on  toyes, 

For  Cupid  is  a  child  —  vouchsafe  this  bounty: 
It  cannot  [be  deny'd] . 

Cal.  You  shall  not  value, 

Sweet  cozen,  at  a  price  what  I  count  cheape ; 
So  cheape,  that  let  him  take  it  who  dares  stoope 

for't. 
And  give  it  at  next  meeting  to  a  mistresse: 
Shee*le  thanke  him  for't,  perhaps. 

Casts  it  to  Ithocles. 
Amelus.  The  ring,  sir,  is 

The  princesses  ;   I  could  have  tooke  it  up.  30 

Itho.     Learne    manners,    prethe.  —  To     the 
blessed  owner, 
Upon  my  knees  — 

25    \be  deny  d\     Q,  beny'd. 


»5 


220  S^ie  )15roben  J^eart         (act  iv. 

Near.  Y'are  sawcy. 

Cal.  This  is  pretty  ! 

I  am,  belike,  a  mistresse, —  wondrous  pretty  !  — 
Let  the  man  keepe  his  fortune,  since  he  found 

it; 
He's  worthy  on't.  —  On,  cozen! 

Itho.  Follow,  spaniell ;  35 

rie  force  'ee  to  a  fawning  else. 

Amel.  You  dare  not. 

Exeunt.    Manent  Itho.  ^  Armost. 
Arm.   My  lord,  you  were  too  forward. 
Itho.  Looke  'ee,  uncle  : 

Some  such  there  are  whose  liberall  contents 
Swarme  without  care  in  every  sort  of  plenty ; 
Who,  after  full  repasts,  can  lay  them  downe        40 
To  sleepe ;  and  they  sleepe,  uncle  :    in  which 

silence 
Their  very  dreames  present  'em  choyce  of  plea- 
sures. 
Pleasures  —  observe  me,  uncle — of  rare  object: 
Here  heaps  of  gold,  there  increments  of  honors  ; 
Now  change  of  garments,  then  the    votes   of 

people ;  45 

Anon  varieties  of  beauties,  courting. 
In  flatteries  of  the  night,  exchange  of  dalliance. 
Yet  these  are  still  but  dreames :  give  me  felicity 
Of  which  my  senses  waking  are  partakers, 
A  reall,  visible,  materiall  happinesse  j  50 


Scene  I.j  ^j^t  WtOhtXl  f^tUtt  221 

And  then,  too,  when  I  stagger  in  expectance 
Of  the  least  comfort  that  can  cherish  life  :  — 
I  saw  it,  sir,  I  saw  it ;   for  it  came 
From  her  owne  hand. 

y/rw.  The  princesse  threw  it  t'ee. 

Itho.  True,  and  she  said  —  well  I   remember 
what.  55 

Her  cozen  prince  would  beg  it. 

Jrm.  Yes,  and  parted 

In  anger  at  your  taking  on't. 

Itho.  Penthea ! 

Oh,  thou  hast  pleaded  with  a  powerfull  language ! 
I  want  a  fee  to  gratifie  thy  myrit. 
But  I  will  doe  — 

j4rm.  What  is't  you  say  ? 

Itho.  In  anger,  60 

In  anger  let  him  part ;   for  could  his  breath. 
Like  whirlewinds,  tosse   such  servile  slaves  as 

licke 
The  dust  his  footsteps  print  into  a  vapour. 
It  durst  not  stirre  a  haire  of  mine,  it  should  not ; 
I'de  rend   it  up  by  th'  roots    first.   To  be   any 

thing  65 

Calantha  smiles  on,  is  to  be  a  blessing 
More  sacred  than  a  petty  —  Prince  of  Argos 
Can  wish  to  equall  or  in  worth  or  title. 

jlrm.   Containe  your   selfe,  my   lord  :   Ixion, 
ayming 


222  tET^e  Brofeen  f^tntt         [act  iv. 

To  embrace  Juno,  bosom'd  but  a  cloud,  70 

And  begat  Centaures  :  'tis  an  useful  morall : 
Ambition  hatch'd  in  clouds  of  meere  opinion 
Proves  but  in  birth  a  prodigie. 

Itbo.  I  thanke  'ee  ; 

Yet,  with  your  licence,  I  should  seeme  unchar- 
itable 
To  gentler  fate,  if  rellishing  the  dainties  75 

Of  a  soules  setled  peace,  I  were  so  feeble 
Not  to  digest  it. 

j^rm.  He  deserves  small  trust 

Who  is  not  privy  counsellor  to  himselfe. 
^Re-']e;jUr  Near c bus,  Orgi/us,  and  Amelus. 

Near.   Brave  me  ? 

Org,  Your  excellence  mistakes  his 

temper ; 
For  Ithocles  in  fashion  of  his  mind  80 

Is  beautifull,  soft,  gentle,  the  cleare  mirror 
Of  absolute  perfection. 

Amel.  Was*t  your  modesty 

TermM  any  of  the  prince  his  servants  "  spaniell "? 
Your  nurse  sure  taught  you  other  language. 

Itho.  Language ! 

Near.  A  gallant  man  at  armes  is  here,  a  doctor  85 
In  feats  of  chivalry,  blunt  and  rough  spoken. 
Vouchsafing  not  the  fustian  of  civility. 
Which  [less]  rash  spirits  stile  good  manners. 

88   lea.     Supplied  by  G. 


Scene  I.]  ®t|e  BtOfeen  f^tM  '223 

Itho.  Manners ! 

Org.  No  more,  illustrious  sir;  'tis  matchlesse 

Ithocles. 
Near.  You  might  have  understood  who  I  am. 
Itho.  Yes,  90 

I  did ;  else  —  but   the  presence  calm*d  th'  af- 
front ; 
Y'are  cozen  to  the  princesse. 

Near.  To  the  king  too; 

A  certaine  instrument  that  lent  supportance 
To  your  collossicke  greatnesse — to  that  king  too, 
You  might  have  added. 

Itho.  There  is  more  divinity  95 

In  beauty  then  in  majesty. 

Arm.  O  fie,  fie  ! 

Near.  This  odde  youths  pride  turnes  hereticke 
in  loyalty. 
Sirrah  !  low  mushroms  never  rivall  cedars. 

Exeunt  Nearchus  ^  Amelus. 
Itho.  Come  backe  !   What  pittifull  dull  thing 
am  I 
So  to  be  tamely  scoulded  at  ?    Come  backe  !        100 
Let  him  come  backe,  and  eccho  once  againe 
That  scornefull  sound  of  mushrome !   Painted 

colts. 
Like  heralds  coats,  guilt  o're  with  crownes  and 

scepters. 
May  bait  a  muzled  lion. 


224  ®tie  3l5roben  f^tm         iact  iv.  ' 

j^rm.  Cozen,  cozen, 

Thy  tongue  is  not  thy  friend. 

Org.  In  point  of  honour  105 

Discretion   knowes    no    bounds.     Amelus   told 

me 
'Twas  all  about  a  little  ring. 

Itho.  A  ring 

The  princesse  threw  away,  and  I  tooke  up : 
Admit  she  threw't  to  me,  what  arme  of  brasse 
Can   snatch  it   hence  ?  No ;  could  a'  grind  the 

hoope  110 

To  powder,  a'  might  sooner  reach  my  heart 
Then  steale  and  weare  one  dust  on't.  —  Orgilus, 
I  am  extreamely  wrong'd. 

Org.  A  ladies  favour 

Is  not  to  be  so  slighted. 

Itho.  Slighted ! 

J^rm.  Quiet 

These  vaine  unruly  passions,  which  will  render 

ye  lis 

Into  a  madnesse. 

Org.  Griefes  will  have  their  vent. 

E^Ur  Tecnicus. 

Arm.  Welcome  ;  thou  com'st  in  season,  rev- 
erend man, 
To  powre  the  balsome  of  a  supplying  patience 
Into  the  festering  wound  of  ill-spent  fury. 

118   iupplying,     G-D,  suppling. 


Scene  L]  tETJ^f  HBtOfeeit  ^Qt^tt  22$  ^ 

Org.  [mide'\.  What  makes  he  here? 

Tecnicus,  The  hurts  are  yet  but  mortall,i2o 

Which  shortly  will  prove  deadly.    To  the  king, 
Armostes,  see  in  safety  thou  deliver 
This  seal'd  up  counsaile ;  bid  him  u^ith  a  con- 
stancy 
Peruse  the  secrets  of  the  gods.  —  O  Sparta, 

0  Lacedemon  !   double  nam'd,  but  one  1*5 
In   fate:  when  kingdomes  reele,  —  marke  well 

my  saw, — 
Their  heads  must  needs  be  giddy.  Tell  the  king 
That  henceforth  he  no  more  must  enquire  after 
My  aged  head  ;  Apollo  wils  it  so ; 

1  am  for  Delphos. 

Arm.  Not  without  some  conference  130 

With  our  great  master. 

Teen.  Never  more  to  see  him  ; 

A  greater  prince  commands  me.  —  Ithocles, 

When  youth  is  ripe^  and  age  from  time  doth  part .^ 
The  livelesse  trunke  shall  wed  the  broken  heart. 

Itho.  What's  this,  if  understood  ? 

Teen.  List,  Orgilus;i35 

Remember  what  I  told  thee  long  before. 
These  teares  shall  be  my  witnesse. 

Jrm.  'Las,  good  man  1 

120  but.   G-D   preserves,    but  suggests  that  "not"   may   be 
the  right  word. 


226  XE^t  llBroken  J^earc         (act  iv. 

Teen.   Let  craft  with  cur  teste  a  while  conferre^ 
Revenge  proves  its  owne  executioner. 

Org.  Darke  sentences  are  for  Apollo's  priests;  140 
I  am  not  Oedipus. 

Teen.  My  howre  is  come  ; 

Cheare  up  the  king ;  farewell  to  all.  —  O  Sparta, 
O  Lacedemon  !  Exit  Teen. 

Arm,  If  propheticke  fire 

Have  warm'd  this  old  mans  bosome,  we  might 

construe 
His  words  to  fatall  sense. 

Itho.  Leave  to  the  powers  145 

Above  us  the  effects  of  their  decrees ; 
My  burthen  lyes  within  me.    Servile  feares 
Prevent  no  great"  effects.  —  Divine  Calantha  ! 

Arm.  The  gods  be  still  propitious  !  — 

Exeunt ;  manet  Org. 

Org.  Something  oddly 

The  booke-man  prated  ;  yet  'a  talk'd  it  weeping  :  15° 

Let  craft  with  curtesie  a  while  conferre^ 

Revenge  proves  its  owne  executioner. 
Conne  it  again ;  for  what  ?  It  shall  not  puzzle  me  j 
'Tis  dotage  of  a  withered  braine.  —  Penthea 
Forbad  me  not  her  presence;  I  may  see  her,      155 
And  gaze  my  fill :  why  see  her  then  I  may ; 
When,  if  I  faint  to  speake,  I  must  be  silent. 

Exit  Org. 


Scene  II.]  ®lje  WtOlSitXt  f^tm  ilj 

[SCENA  SECUNDA.  J  room  in  Bassanes' 

house. ~\ 

Enter  Bassanesy  Grausis,  and  Phulas. 

Bassanes.   Pray,  use  your  recreations ;  all  the 
service 
I  will  expect  is  quietnesse  amongst  'ee ; 
Take  liberty  at  home,  abroad,  at  all  times, 
And  in  your  charities  appease  the  gods 
Whom  I  with  my  distractions  have  offended.         5 

Grausis.   Faire  blessings  on  thy  heart ! 

Phulas  [aside'].  Here's  a  rare  change; 

My  lord,  to  cure  the  itch,  is  surely  gelded ; 
The  cuckold  in  conceit  hath  cast  his  homes. 

Bass.  Betake  'ee  to  your  severall  occasions, 
And  wherein  I  have  heretofore  beene  faulty,        10 
Let  your  constructions  mildly  passe  it  over ; 
Henceforth  I'le  study  reformation,  —  more 
I  have  not  for  employment. 

Grau.  O?  sweet  man  ! 

Thou  art  the  very  hony-combe  of  honesty. 

Phul.  The  garland  of  good-will.  — Old  lady, 
hold  up  15 

Thy  reverend  snout,  and  trot  behind  me  softly, 
As  it  becomes  a  moile  of  ancient  carriage. 

Exeunt ;  manet  Bass. 

Bass.  Beasts,  onely  capable  of  sense,  enjoy 


20 


228  ®i)e  llBroben  J^eart         (activ. 

The  benefit  of  food  and  ease  with  thankfulnesse  ; 
Such   silly   creatures,   with    a    grudging,  kicke 

not 

Against  the  portion  nature  hath  bestowMj 
But  men  endow'd  with  reason  and  the  use 
Of  reason,  to  distinguish  from  the  chaffe 
Of  abject  scarscity  the  quintescence, 
Soule,  and  elixar  of  the  earths  abundance,  25 

The  treasures  of  the  sea,  the  ayre,  nay,  heaven, 
Repining  at  these  glories  of  creation. 
Are  verier  beasts  than  beasts  ;  and  of  those  beasts 
The  worst  am  I ;  I,  who  was  made  a  monarch 
Of  what  a  heart  could  wish  for,  a  chast  wife,       3© 
Endevour'd  what  in  me  lay  to  pull  downe 
That  temple  built  for  adoration  onely. 
And  level't  in  the  dust  of  causelesse  scandall. 
But,  to  redeeme  a  sacrilege  so  impious. 
Humility  shall  powre  before  the  deities  35 

I  have  incenst,  a  largesse  of  more  patience 
Then  their  displeased  altars  can  require : 
No  tempests  of  commotion  shall  disquiet 
The  calmes  of  my  composure. 
Enter  Orgilus. 
Orgilus.  I  have  found  thee. 

Thou  patron  of  more  horrors  then  the  bulke        40 
Of  manhood,  hoop'd  about  with  ribs  of  iron. 
Can  cramb  within  thy  brest :  Penthea,  Bassanes, 

36  largesse.   Q,  largenesse. 


Scene  H.]  ^^t  WtO'kttl  f^tUVt  229 

Curst  by  thy  jealousies, —  more,  by  thy  dotage, — 
Is  left  a  prey  to  words. 

Bass.  Exercise 

Your  trials  for  addition  to  my  pennance ;  45 

I  am  resolv'd. 

Org.  Play  not  with  misery 

Past  cure  :  some  angry  minister  of  fate  hath 
Depos'd  the  empresse  of  her  soule,  her  reason, 
From  its  most  proper  throne ;  but,  what's  the 

miracle 
More  new,  I,  I  have  seene  it,  and  yet  live!  50 

Bass.  You  may   delude  my   senses,  not  my 
judgement; 
'Tis  anchored  into  a  firme  resolution ; 
Dalliance  of  mirth  or  wit  can  ne're  unfixe  it. 
Practise  yet  further. 

Org.  May  thy  death  of  love  to  her 

Damne  all  thy  comforts  to  a  lasting  fast  55 

P'rom  every  joy  of  life  !   Thou  barren  rocke. 
By  thee  we  have  bee  [n]  split  in  ken  of  harbour. 

Enter  IthocleSy  Penthea  her  haire  about  her  eares^ 

Philema,  Christ  alia. 
Ithocles.  Sister,  looke  up  ;  your  Ithocles,  your 
brother, 
Speakes  t'ee ;  why  doe  you  weepe  ?   Deere,  turne 

not  from  me : 
Here  is  a  killing  sight ;  lo,  Bassanes,  60 

A  lamentable  object. 


230  ^^t  Broken  ^tntt         [act  iv. 

Org.  Man,  dost  see't  ? 

Sports  are  more  gamesome  ;  am  I  yet  in  merri- 
ment ? 
Why  dost  not  laugh  ? 

Bass.  Divine  and  best  of  ladies, 

Please  to  forget  my  out-rage ;   mercy  ever 
Cannot  but  lodge  under  a  root  so  excellent :  65 

I  have  cast  off  that  cruelty  of  frenzy 
Which   once   appear'd    [imposture] ,  and  then 

jugled 
To  cheat  my  sleeps  of  rest. 

Org.  Was  I  in  earnest  ? 

Pen.  Sure,  if  we  were   all   sirens,  we  should 
sing  pittifully. 
And  'twere  a  comely  musicke,  when  in  parts       70 
One  sung  anothers  knell :  the  turtle  sighes 
When  he  hath  lost  his  mate ;  and  yet  some  say 
A*  must  be  dead  first :  'tis  a  fine  deceit 
To  passe  away  in  a  dreame  !  indeed,  I've  slept 
With  mine  eyes  open  a  great  while.    No  fals- 

hood  75 

Equals  a  broken  faith ;  there's  not  a  haire 
Sticks  on  my  head  but  like  a  leaden  plummet 
It  sinkes  me  to  the  grave  :  I  must  creepe  thither. 
The  journey  is  not  long. 

Itbo.  But  thou,  Penthea, 

65   root.    G-D,  roof. 

67  [imposture'^.  So  G-D.   Q,  Impostors. 


Scene  IL]  ^\)t  WtO^tXt  f!i^tm  23 1 

Hast  many  yeeres,  I  hope,  to  number  yet,  80 

E're  thou  canst  travell  that  way. 

Bass.  Let  the  [sun]  first 

Be  wrap'd  up  in  an  everlasting  darknesse. 
Before  the  light  of  nature,  chiefly  formM 
For  the  whole  worlds  delight,  feele  an  ecclipse 
So  universall. 

Org.  Wisdome,  looke  'ee,  begins  85 

To  rave  !  —  art  thou  mad  too,  antiquity  ? 

Pen.  Since  I  was  first  a  wife,  I  might  have  beene 
Mother  to  many  pretty  pratling  babes ; 
They  would  have  smil'd  when  I  smilM,  and,  for 

certaine, 
I  should  have  cry'd  when  they  cry'd  :  —  truly, 

brother,  90 

My  father  would  have  pick'd  me  out  a  husband. 
And  then  my  little  ones  had  beene  no  bastards ; 
But  'tis  too  late  for  me  to  marry  now, 
I  am  past  child-bearing;  'tis  not  my  fault. 

Bass.  Fall  on  me,  if  there  be  a  burning  Etna,  95 
And  bury  me  in  flames  !  sweats  hot  as  sulphure 
Boyle  through  my  pores  :  aflHiction  hath  in  store 
No  torture  like  to  this. 

Org.  Behold  a  patience  ! 

Lay  by  thy  whyning  gray  dissimulation. 
Doe  something  worth  a  chronicle ;  shew  justice  100 
Upon  the  author  of  this  mischiefe  ;  dig  out 

81   sun.   Q,  swan. 


232  Wl)t  llBrofeen  l^eart         iact  iv. 

The  jealousies  that  hatch'd  this  thraldome  first 
With  thine  owne  ponyard  :  every  anticke  rapture 
Can  roare  as  thine  does. 

Itho.  Orgilus,  forbeare. 

Bass.   Disturbe  him  not ;  it  is  a  talking  motion  loi 
Provided  for  my  torment.   What  a  foole  am  I 
To  bav/dy  passion  !   E're  I'le  speake  a  word, 
I  will  looke  on  and  burst. 

Pen,  I  lov'd  you  once. 

Org.  Thou  didst,  wrong'd  creature,  in  despite 
of  malice  ; 
For  it  I  love  thee  ever. 

Pen.  Spare  your  hand ;  no 

Beleeve  me,  I'le  not  hurt  it. 

Org.  Paine  my  heart  to  .  .  . 

[/V«.]     Complaine   not   though    I    wring   it 
hard;  I'le  kisse  it ; 
O  'tis  a  fine  soft  palme :  harke  in  thijie  eare; 
Like  whom  doe  I  looke,  prethe.?  nay,  no  whis- 
pering. 
Goodnesse  !   we  had  beene  happy :   too   much 

happinesse  115 

Will  make  folke   proud,  they  say  —  but  that  is 
he  ;  Poi?its  at  Ithocles, 

107  baivdy.    So  (^  and  G.    Changed  by  D  in  G-D  to  bandy. 

Ill  Paine  my  heart  to.  Q  is  corrupt  here.  G-D  omits  paine  and 
reads  My  heart  too.    W,  Pain  my  heart  too. 

II2-1Z2  Complaint  .  .  .  still  Uis  he.  Q  gives  this  speech  to 
Orgilus. 


Scene  II.]         tETfje  HBrofeeH  l^eart  233 

And  yet  he  paid  for't  home ;  alas,  his  heart 

Is  crept  into  the  cabinet  of  the  princesse; 

We  shall  have  points  and  bridelaces.   Remember 

When  we  last  gather'd  roses  in  the  garden  120 

I  found  my  wits ;  but  truly  you  lost  yours  : 

That's  he,  and  still  *tis  he. 

Itho.  Poore  soule,  how  idely 

Her  fancies  guide  her  tongue. 

Bass,  [aside].  Keepe  in,  vexation. 

And  breake  not  into  clamour. 

Org.  [aside].  She  has  tutor'd  me  ; 

Some    powerfuU    inspiration    checks    my    lazi- 

nesse.  —  125 

Now  let  me  kisse  your  hand,  griev'd  beauty. 

Pen.  Kisse  it. 

Alacke,  alacke,  his  lips  be  wondrous  cold  ; 
Deare    soule,  h'as    lost    his    colour ;    have  'ee 

scene 
A  straying  heart  ?  all  crannies,  every  drop 
Of  blood  is  turn'd  to  an  amethist,  130 

Which  married  bachelours  hang  in  their  eares. 

Org.   Peace  usher  her  into  Elizium  !  — 
If  this  be  madnesse,  madnesse  is  an  oracle. 

ExJi  Org. 

Itho.    Christalla,    Philema,    when     slept    my 
sister. 
Her  ravings  are  so  wild  ? 

Christalla.  Sir,  not  these  ten  dayes.135 


234  tETlje  Brofeen  l^eart         (act  iv. 

Philema.  We  watch  by  her  continually ;  be- 
sides, 
We  cannot  any  way  pray  her  to  eat. 
Bass.  Oh  —  misery  of  miseries  ! 
Pen.  Take  comfort; 

You  may  live  well,  and  dye  a  good  old  man. 
By  yea  and  nay,  an  oath  not  to  be  broken,  140 

If  you  had  joyn'd  our  hands  once  in  the  tem- 
ple,— 
'Twas  since  my  father  dyM,  for  had  he  livM 
He  would  have  don't,  —  I  must  have  callM  you 

father. 
Oh  my  wrack'd  honour,  ruinM  by  those  tyrants, 
A  cruell  brother  and  a  desperate  dotage  !  HS 

There  is  no  peace  left  for  a  ravish'd  wife 
Widdow'd  by  lawlesse  marriage  ;  to  all  memory 
Penthea's,  poore  Penthea's,  name  is  strumpeted: 
But  since  her  blood  was  seasoned  by  the  forfeit 
Of  noble  shame  with  mixtures  of  pollution,        »5o 
Her  blood — 'tis  just  —  be  henceforth    never 

heightned 
With  tast  of  sustenance!  Starve;  let  that  ful- 

nesse 
Whose  plurisie  hath  sever'd  faith  and  modesty  — 
P'orgive  me  :  O,  I  faint ! 

Arm.  Be  not  so  wilfull, 

Sweet  neece,  to  worke  thine  owne  destruction. 
Itho.  Nature  155 


Scene  II.]  ^\^t  llBrOkeit  H^tUtt  235 

Will  call  her  daughter  monster,  —  what !  not 

eat? 
Refuse  the  onely  ordinary  meanes 
Which  are  ordain'd  for  life  ?   Be  not,  my  sister, 
A  murthresse  to  thy  selfe.  —  Hear'st  thou  this, 
Bassanes  ? 
Bass.    Fo !   I  am  busle  :  for  I  have  not  thoughts  160 
Enow  to  thinke:  all  shall  be  well  anon. 
'Tis  rumbling  in  my  head :  there  is  a  mastery 
In  art  to  fatten  and  keepe  smooth  the  outside, 
Yes,  and  to  comfort  up  the  vitall  spirits 
Without  the  heipe  of  food;  fumes  or  perfumes,  165 
Perfumes  or  fumes.   Let  her  alone ;  Tie  search  out 
The  tricke  on't. 

Pen.        Lead  me  gently  ;  heavens  reward  ye : 
Griefes   are  sure   friends ;  they  leave,  without 

controule. 
Nor  cure  nor  comforts  for  a  leprous  soule. 

Exeunt  the  maids  supporti?ig  Penthea. 
Bass.   I   grant   t'ee  ;  and  will   put  in  practice 

instantly  170 

What  you  shall  still  admire :  'tis  wonderfull, 
'Tis  super  singular,  not  to  be  match'd; 
Yet   when  IVe  don't,  I've  don't ;  ye  shall  all 
thanke  mee.  Exit  Bassanes. 

Arm.  The  sight  is  full  of  terror. 
Itho.  On  my  soule 

165  Q  and  G-D  place  a  comma  ziitx  food. 


236  ®l)e  3l5roken  f^tm         iact  iv. 

Lyes  such    an   infinite   clogge  of   massie    dul- 

nesse,  175 

As  that  I  have  not  sense  enough  to  feele  it.  — 
See,  uncle,  th'angry  thing  returnes  againe ; 
Shall's    welcome   him  with  thunder?    We    are 

haunted, 
And  must  use  exorcisme  to  conjure  downe 
This  spirit  of  malevolence. 

j4rm.  Mildly,  nephew.       180 

Enier  Nearchus  and  Amelus, 
Nearchus.  I  come  not,  sir,  to  chide  your  late 
disorder. 
Admitting  that  th'inurement  to  a  roughnesse 
In  souldiers  of  your  yeares  and  fortunes,  chiefly 
So  lately  prosperous,  hath  not  yet  shooke  ofF 
The  custome  of  the  warre  in  houres  of  leisure  ;  185 
Nor  shall    you   need  excuse,   since    y'  are   to 

render 
Account  to  that  faire  excellence,  the  princesse. 
Who  in  her  private  gallery  expects  it 
From  your  owne  mouth  alone  :  I  am  a  messen- 
ger 
But  to  her  pleasure. 

Itho.  Excellent  Nearchus,  190 

Be  prince  still  of  my  services,  and  conquer 
Without  the  combat  of  dispute ;  I  honour  'ee. 
Near.  The  king  is  on  a  sudden  indispos'd, 

177  th"" angry.     So  G-D.  Q,  th'  augury. 


Scene  ILJ  ^^t  WtCiktW  l^eatt  237 

Physicians  are  call'd  for ;  'twere  fit,  Armostes, 
You  should  be  neere  him. 

j^rm.  Sir,  I  kisse  your  hands.  195 

Exeunt.    Manent  Nearchus  ^  Anielus. 

Near.  Amelus,  I  perceive  Calantha's  bosome 
Is  warm'd  with  other  fires  then  such  as  can 
Take  strength  from  any  fuell  of  the  love 
I  might  addresse  to  her:  young  Ithocles, 
Or  ever  I  mistake,  is  lord  ascendant  aoo 

Of  her  devotions ;  one,  to  speake  him  truly, 
In  every  disposition  nobly  fashioned. 

Amelus.   But  can  your  highnesse  brooke  to  be 
so  rivalM, 
Considering  th'  inequality  of  the  persons  ? 

Near.   I  can,  Amelus ;  for  affections  injur'd    205 
By  tyrannic  or  rigour  of  compulsion. 
Like  tempest-threatned  trees  unfirmely  rooted, 
Ne're  spring  to  timely  growth  :  observe,  for  in- 
stance. 
Life-spent  Penthea  and  unhappy  Orgilus. 

Amel.   How  does  your  grace  determine  ? 

Near.  To  be  jealous  210 

In  publike  of  what  privately  I'le  further ; 
And  though  they  shall  not  know,  yet  they  shall 
finde  it. 

Exeunt  omnes. 


238  ®l)e  113rohm  J^eart         iact  iv. 

SCENA  TERTIA.   An  apartment  in  the  palace. 

Enter  Hemophil  and  Groneas  as  leading  AmyclaSy  and 
placing   him    in    a   chayre,  followed   by  Armostes 
Crotolony  and  Prophilus, 

Amy  das.  Our  daughter  is  not  neere  ? 

Armostes.  She  is  retired,  sir, 

Into  her  gallery. 

Amy.  Where's  the  prince  our  cozen  ? 

Prophilus.  New  walk'd  into  the  grove,  my  lord. 

Amy.  All  leave  us 

Except  Armostes,  and  you,  Crotolon; 
We  would  be  private. 

Proph.  Health  unto  your  Majesty !     5 

Exeunt  Prophilusy  Hemophil  ^  Groneas, 

Amy.  What  !   Tecnicus  is  gone  ? 

Arm.  He  is,  to  Delphos  ; 

And  to  your  royall  hands  presents  this  box. 

Amy.  Unseale  it,  good  Armostes ;  therein  lyes 
The  secrets  of  the  oracle ;  out  with  it : 
Apollo  live  our  patron !   Read,  Armostes.  'o 

Arm.    The  plot  in  which  the  vine  takes  root 
Begins  to  dry  from  head  to  foot ; 
The  stocke  soone  withering^  want  of  sap 
Doth  cause  to  quaile  the  budding  grape  : 
But  from  the  neighboring  elme  a  dew  15 

Shall  drop  and  feed  the  plot  anew. 


Scene  III]       tKJie  llBrofeeH  l^eart  239 

Amy.  That  is  the  oracle  :  what  exposition 
Makes  the  philosopher  ? 

Arm.  This  brief  one  onely  : 

The  plot  is  Sparta.,  the  dry^d  vine  the  kingj 
The  quailing  grape  his  daughter ;  but  the 

thing  20 

Of  most  importance.,  not  to  be  reveal' d., 
Is  a  neere  prince.,  the  elme ;  the  rest  con- 
cealed. 

Tecnicus. 

Amy.  Enough ;  although  the  opening  of  this 
riddle 
Is  but  it  selfe  a  riddle,  yet  we  construe  25 

How  neere  our  lab'ring  age  drawes  to  a  rest : 
But    must    Calantha   quaile    too  ?   that   young 

grape 
Untimely  budded !   I  could  mourne  for  her ; 
Her  tendernesse  hath  yet  deserv'd  no  rigor 
So  to  be  crost  by  fate. 

Arm.  You  misapply,  sir, —  30 

"With  favour  let  me  speake  it, —  what  Apollo 
Hath  clouded  in  hid  sense  :  I  here  conjecture 
Her  marriage  with  some  neighb'ring  prince,  the 

dew 
Of  which  befriending  elme  shall  ever  strengthen 
Your  subjects  with  a  soveraignty  of  power.  35 

47  too  ?  So  G-D.    Q,  to  ;  no  mark  of  punctuation. 


240  tn^^t  llBroben  J^eart         iact  iv. 

Crotolon.   Besides,  most  gracious  lord,  the  pith 
of  oracles 
Is  to  be  then  digested  when  th'events 
Expound  their  truth,   not  brought  assoone   to 

light 
As  utter'd  ;  Truth  is  child  of  Time ;  and  herein 
I  finde  no  scruple,  rather  cause  of  comfort,  40 

With  unity  of  kingdomes. 

Amy.  May  it  prove  so. 

For   weale  of  this   deare   nation !  —  Where    is 

Ithocles  ?  — 
Armostes,  Crotolon,  when  this  wither'd  vine 
Of  my  fraile  carkasse  on  the  funerall  pile 
Is  fir'd  into  its  ashes,  let  that  young  man  45 

Be  hedg'd  about  still  with  your  cares  and  loves ; 
Much  owe   I   to  his  worth,  much  to  his   serv- 
ice.— 
Let  such  as  wait  come  in  now. 

Arm.  All  attend  here  ! 

Enter  IthocleSy  Calantha,  Prophilus,  Orgilus, 

Euphranea,  Hemophi/y  atid  Groneas. 
Calantha,   Deare  sir !   king  !   father ! 
Ithocles.  O,  my  royall  master  ! 

Amy.   Cleave  not   my  heart,  sweet  twins  of 
my  life's  solace,  50 

With  your  fore-judging  feares :  there  is  no  phy- 

sicke 
So  cunningly  restorative  to  cherish 


Scene  III.)  tCl)e  llBfObett  fQtM  A^ 

The  fall  of  age,  or  call  backe  youth  and  vigor, 
As  your  consents  in  duty  :   I  will  shake  off 
This  languishing  disease  of  time,  to  quicken  55 

Fresh  pleasures  in  these  drooping  houres  of  sad- 

nesse. 
Is  faire  Euphranea  married  yet  to  Prophilus  ? 
Crot.  This  morning,  gracious  lord. 
Orgilus,  This  very  morning ; 

Which,  with  your  highnesse  leave,  you  may  ob- 
serve too. 
Our    sister    lookes,   me   thinks,   mirthfull    and 

sprightly,  60 

As  if  her  chaster  fancy  could  already 
Expound  the  riddle  of  her  gaine  in  losing 
A  trifle  maids  know  onely  that  they  know  not. 
Pish  !  prethe,  blush  not ;   'tis  but  honest  change 
Of  fashion  in  the  garment,  loose  for  streight,        65 
And  so  the  modest  maid  is  made  a  wife  : 
Shrewd  businesse,  is't  not,  sister? 

Euphranea.  You  are  pleasant. 

Jmy,   We  thanke  thee,  Orgilus  ;  this  mirth  be- 
comes thee : 
But  wherefore  sits  the  court  in  such  a  silence  ? 
A  wedding  without  revels  is  not  seemely.  70 

Cal.  Your  late  indisposition,  sir,  forbade  it. 
Amy,   Be  it  thy  charge,  Calantha,  to  set  for- 
ward 
The  bridall  sports,  to  which  I  will  be  present, — 


242  tETlje  Broken  J^eart         [act  iv. 

If  not,  at  least  consenting.   Mine  owne  Ithocles, 
I  have  done  little  for  thee  yet. 

Itho.  Y'have  built  me  75 

To  the  full  height  I  stand  in. 

Cal.  Now  or  never 

May  I  propose  a  suit  ? 

Jmy.  Demand,  and  have  it. 

Cal.  Pray,  sir,  give  me  this  young  man,  and 
no  further 
Account  him  yours  then  he  deserves  in  all  things 
To  be  thought  worthy  mine  ;   I  will  esteeme  him  80 
According  to  his  merit. 

Jmy.  Still  th'art  my  daughter, 

Still  grow'st  upon  my  heart.  Give  me  thine  hand; 
Calantha  take  thine  owne  ;   in  noble  actions 
Thou'lt  find  him  firme  and  absolute.   I  would  not 
Have  parted  with  thee,  Ithocles,  to  any  85 

But  to  a  mistresse  who  is  all  what  I  am. 

Itho.  A  change,  great  king,  most   wisht  for, 
cause  the  sam[e]. 

Cal.  Th'  art  mine.  —  Have  I  now  kept  my 
word  ? 

Itho.  Divinely. 

Org.    Rich  fortunes,  guard    to    favour    of  a 
princesse, 

76  N01V  or  never.     G-D,  [aside]  Now  or  never  !  — 
89   Rich  .  .  .  princesse.    G-D,  Rich  fortunes  guard,  the  favour 
of  a  princess.  fortunes.     2,  fortuness. 


Scene  III.]       XE'\)t  llBtofeeu  l^ea^t  243 

Rocke  thee,  brave  man,  in  ever  crowned  plenty;  90 
Y*  are  minion  of  the  time ;  be  thankful!  for  it.  — 
[Jside.]    Ho,  here's  a  swinge  in  destiny  —  ap- 
parent ! 
The  youth  is  up  on  tiptoe,  yet  may  stumble. 
Jmy.  On  to  your  recreations.  —  Now  con- 
vey me 
Unto  my  bed-chamber :  none  on  his  forehead      95 
Were  a  distempered  looke. 

Omnes.  The  gods  preserve  *ee ! 

Cal.  [aside  to  Ith.\  Sweet,  be  not   from  my 

sight. 
1th.  [aside  to  CaLI.  My  whole  felicity. 

Exeunt  carrying  out  the  king;  Orgilus  stayes 
Ithocles. 
Org.   Shall  I  be  bold,  my  lord  ? 
llljo.  Thou  canst  not,  Orgilus  ; 

Call  me  thine  owne,  for  Prophilus  must  hence- 
forth 
Be  all  thy  sisters  ;  friendship,  though  it  cease  not  100 
In  marriage,  yet  is  oft  at  lesse  command 
Then  when  a  single  freedome  can  dispose  it. 
Org.    Most   right,   my   most   good   lord,   my 
most  great  lord. 
My  gracious    princely    lord,  —  I    might    adde, 
royall. 
Itho.  Royall !   a  subject  royall  ? 
Qyg^  Why  not,  pray,  sir  ?  105 


244  ^^t  llBrofeen  l^eart         [act  iv. 

The  soveraignty  of  kingdomes  in  their  nonage 
Stoop'd   to   desert,  not   birth ;  there's  as   much 

merit 
In  clearenesse  of  affection  as  in  puddle 
Of  generation  :  you  have  conquer'd  love 
Even  in  the  loveliest;   if  I  greatly  erre  not,  no 

The  Sonne  of  Venus  hath  bequeathed  his  quiver 
To  Ithocles  his  manage,  by  whose  arrowes 
Calantha's  brest  is  open'd. 

Itho.  Can't  be  possible  ? 

Org.   I  was  my  selfe  a  peece  of  suitor  once, 
And  forward  in  preferment  too;  so  forward,       115 
That,  speaking  truth,  I  may  without  offence,  sir, 
Presume  to  whisper  that  my  hopes  and,  harke  'ee, 
My  certainty  of  marriage  stood  assured 
With  as  firme  footing,  by  your  leave,  as  any's 
Now  at  this  very  instant — but  — 

Itho.  'Tis  granted :  120 

And  for  a  league  of  privacy  betweene  us. 
Read  o're  my  bosome  and  pertake  a  secret ; 
The  princesse  is  contracted  mine. 

Org.  Still,  why  not  ? 

I  now  applaud  her  wisdome;  when  your  king- 
dome 
Stands  seated  in  your  will  secure  and  setled,        125 
I  dare  pronounce  you  will  be  a  just  monarch : 
Greece  must  admire  and  tremble. 

Itho.  Then  the  sweetnesse 


Scene  IIL]  tU^^t  WtOktU  ti^tRtt  245 

Of  so  imparadis'd  a  comfort,  Orgilus  ! 
It  is  to  banquet  with  the  gods. 

Org.  The  glory 

Of  numerous  children,  potency  of  nobles,  13° 

Bent  knees,  hearts  pav'd  to  tread  on  ! 

Itho,  With  a  friendship 

So  deare,  so  fast  as  thine. 

Org.  I  am  unfitting 

For  office,  but  for  service  — 

Itho.  Wee'll  distinguish 

Our  fortunes  meerely  in  the  title;  partners 
In  all  respects  else  but  the  bed. 

Org.  The  bed !  135 

Forefend  it  Joves  owne  jealousie,  till  lastly 
We  slip  downe  in  the  common  earth  together ; 
And  there  our  beds  are  equall,  save  some  monu- 
ment 
To  shew  this  was  the  king,  and  this  the  subject. 
List,  what  sad  sounds  are  these  ?  —  extremely 

sad  ones.  140 

Itho.  Sure  from  Penthea's  lodgings. 

Org.  Harke !  a  voyce  too. 

Soft  sad  musicke.      A  song. 

Oh,  no  more,  no  more,  too  late 

Sighes  are  spent ;  the  burning  tapers 

Of  a  life  as  chast  as  fate. 

Pure  as  are  unwritten  papers,  145 


246  ®l)e  Brofeen  fQtwct         (act  iv. 

j^re  burnt  out :  no  heat,  no  light 

Now  remaines  ;  '  tis  ever  night. 
Love  is  dead  ;  let  lovers  eyes. 

Locked  in  endlesse  dreames, 

TF  extremes  of  all  extremes,  150 

Ope  no  more,  for  now  Love  dyes. 

Now  Love  dyesy  implying 
Loves  martyrs  must  be  ever,  ever  dying, 

Itho.  Oh  my  misgiving  heart ! 
Org.  A  horrid  stilnesse 

Succeeds  this  deathfull  ayre ;  let's  know  the  rea- 
son: 15s 
Tread  softly;  there  is  mystery  in  mourning. 

Exeunt. 

[SCENA  QUARTA.  Apartment  of  Penthea  in 
the  palace^ 

Enter  Christalla  and  Philemay  bringing  in  Penthea  in 
a  chairey  vaild;  two  other  servants  placing  two 
chairesy  one  on  the  one  sidey  and  the  other  with  an 
engine  on  the  other.  The  maids  sit  downe  at  her 
feet  mourning  ;  the  servants  goe  out ;  meet  them 
Ithocles  and  Orgilus. 

Servant  \_aside  to  Orgilus^ .      *Tis  done ;  that 

on  her  right  hand. 
Orgilus.  Good  :  begone. 

^Exeunt  servants.^ 
Ithocles.  Soft  peace  inrich  this  roome. 


Scene  IV.]  XE^^t  WtO^tXt  f^tUtt  l^J 

Org.  How  fares  the  lady  ? 

Philema.   Dead  ! 

Christalla.  Dead ! 

Phil.  StarvM ! 

Chris,  StarvM ! 

Itho.  Me  miserable! 

Org.  Tell  us 

How  parted  she  from  life  ? 

Phil.  She  caird  for  musicke, 

And  begg'd  some  gentle  voyce  to  tune  a  fare- 
well 5 
To  life  and  griefes  :  Christalla  touch'd  the  lute ; 
I  wept  the  funerall  song. 

Chris.  Which  scarce  was  ended,' 

But  her  last  breath  seal'd  up  these  hollow  sounds, 
"  O  cruell  Ithocles  and  injur'd  Orgilus !  " 
So  downe  she  drew  her  vaile,  so  dy*d. 

Itho.  So  dy'd  !   lo 

Org.  Up  !  you  are  messengers  of  death  ;  goe 
from  us ; 
Here's  woe  enough  to  court  without  a  prompter. 
Away ;  and,  harke  ye,  till  you  see  us  next. 
No  sillable  that  she  is  dead.  — Away ! 

Exeunt  Phil,  and  Chri, 
Keepe  a  smooth  brow.  — My  lord, — 

Itho.  Mine  onely  sister  !  15 

Another  is  not  left  me. 

Org.  Take  that  chayre  ; 


248  ®l)e  llBrobm  l^rart         iact  iv. 

rie  seat  me  here  in  this  :  betweene  us  sits 
The  object  of  our  sorrowes ;  some  few  teares 
Wee'll  part  among  us ;  I  perhaps  can  mixe 
One  lamentable  story  to  prepare  'em.  ao 

There,  there,  sit  there,  my  lord. 

It  ho.  Yes,  as  you  please. 

Ithocles  sits  downs,  and  is  catcht  in  the  engine. 

What  meanes  this  treachery  ? 

Org,  Caught,  you  are  caught. 

Young  master :  'tis  thy  throne  of  coronation. 

Thou  foole  of  greatenesse !  See,  I  take  this  vaile  ofF; 

Survey  a  beauty  wither'd  by  the  flames  25 

Of  an  insulting  Phaeton,  her  brother. 
Itho.  Thou  mean'st  to  kill  me  basely. 
Org,  I  foreknew 

The  last  act  of  her  life,  and  train'd  thee  hither 

To  sacrifice  a  tyrant  to  a  turtle. 

You  dream't   of  kingdomes,   did  'ee  ?    how  to 

bosome  30 

The  delicacies  of  a  youngling  princesse  ; 

How  with  this  nod  to  grace  that  subtill  courtier. 

How  with  that  frowne  to  make  this  noble  tremble. 

And  so  forth ;  whiles  Penthea's  grones  and  tor- 
tures. 

Her  agonies,  her  miseries,  afflictions,  35 

Ne're  toucht  upon  your  thought ;  as  for  my  in- 
juries, 

Alas,  they  were  beneath  your  royall  pitty; 


Scene  IV.]  tC^t  HSrOfeeU  fli^t^tt  249 

But  yet  they  liv'd,  thou  proud  man,  to  confound 

thee : 
Behold  thy  fate,  this  Steele  ! 

Itho.  Strike  home!  A  courage 

As  keene  as  thy  revenge  shall  give  it  welcome :  40 
But,  prethe,  faint  not ;  if  the  wound  close  up, 
Tent  it  with  double  force,  and  search  it  deeply. 
Thou  look'st  that  I  should  whine  and  beg  com- 
passion. 
As  loath  to  leave  the  vainnesse  of  my  glories; 
A  statelier  resolution  armes  my  confidence,  45 

To  cozen  thee  of  honour ;  neither  could  I, 
With  equall  tryall  of  unequall  fortune. 
By  hazard  of  a  duell ;  'twere  a  bravery 
Too  mighty  for  a  slave  intending  murther : 
On  to  the  execution,  and  inherit  50 

A  conflict  with  thy  horrors. 

Org.  By  Apollo, 

Thou  talk'st  a  goodly  language  !  for  requitall, 
I  will  report  thee  to  thy  mistresse  richly  : 
And  take  this  peacealong;  some  few  short  minutes 
Determin'd,  my  resolves  shall  quickly  follow        55 
Thy  wrathfull  ghost ;  then,  if  we  tug  for  mastery, 
Pentheas  sacred  eyes  shall  lend  new  courage. 
Give  me  thy  hand ;  be  healthfull  in  thy  parting 
From  lost  mortality !  thus,  thus,  I  free  it. 

Sial>s  him, 

59  Stabi  him.  Q,  Kih  him. 


250  Wf^t  315rofeen  l^eart         [act  iv. 

Itho.  Yet,  yet,  I  scorne  to  shrinke. 
Org,  Keepe  up  thy  spirit :  60 

I  will  be  gentle  even  in  blood ;  to  linger 
Paine,  which  I  strive  to  cure,  were  to  be  cruell. 

^Sfah  him  again. "^ 
Itho.  Nimble  in  vengeance,  I  forgive  thee ; 
follow 
Safety,  with  best  successe.  O  may  it  prosper!  — 
Penthea,  by  thy  side  thy  brother  bleeds  ;  65 

The  earnest  of  his  wrongs  to  thy  forc'd  faith. 
Thoughts  of  ambition,  or  delitious  banquet 
With  beauty,  youth,  and  love,  together  perish 
In  my  last  breath,  which  on  the  sacred  Altar 
O f  a  long  look'd  for  peace  —  now  —  moves  —  to 

heaven.  70 

Moritur. 

Org.    Farewell,    faire    spring   of   manhood ; 

henceforth  welcome 
Best  expectation  of  a  noble  sufFrance : 
rie  locke  the  bodies  safe,  till  what  must  follow 
Shall  be  approved. —  Sweet  twins,  shine  stars 

for  ever ! 
In  vaine  they  build  their  hopes,  whose  life  is 

shame ;  7^ 

No  monument  lasts  but  a  happy  name. 

Exit  Orgilus, 


ACTUS    QUINTUS  :  SCAENA    PRIMA. 

A  room  in  Bassanes*  house. 

Enter  Bassanes  alone. 

Bassanes.  Athens,  to  Athens  I  have  sent,  the 
nursery 
Of  Greece  for  learning  and  the  fount  of  knowl- 
edge : 
For  here  in  Sparta  there's  not  left  amongst  us 
One  wise  man  to  direct;  we're  all  turn'd  mad- 
caps. 
'Tis  said  Apollo  is  the  god  of  herbs  ;  5 

Then  certainly  he  knowes  the  vertue  of  'em  : 
To  Delphos  I  have  sent  to ;  if  there  can  be 
A  helpe  for  nature,  we  are  sure  yet. 
Enter  Orgilus. 
Orgilus.  Honour 

Attend  thy  counsels  ever! 

Bass.  I  beseech  thee 

With  all  my  heart,  let  me  goe  from  thee  quietly ;   lo 
I  will  not  ought  to  doe  with  thee,  of  all  men. 
The  doublers  of  a  hare,  or,  in  a  morning. 
Salutes  from  a  splay-footed  witch,  to  drop 
Three  drops  of  blood  at  th'nose  just  and  no 
more, 

7  itnt  to.    G-D,  sent  too.  12  doublers.      G-D,  doubles. 


252  Wi)t  broken  l^eart  iact  v 

Croaking  of  ravens,  or  the  screech  of  owles, 
Are  not  so  boading  mischiefe  as  thy  crossing 
My  private  meditations  :  shun  me,  prethe  j 
And  if  I  cannot  love  thee  hartily, 
rie  love  thee  as  well  as  I  can. 

Org.  Noble  Bassanes, 

Mistake  me  not. 

Bass.         Phew !  Then  we  shall  be  troubled. 
Thou  wert  ordain'd  my  plague,  heaven  make 

me  thankfull; 
And   give  me  patience  too,  heaven,  I  beseech 
thee. 

Org.  Accept  a  league  of  amity ;  for  hence- 
forth, 
I  vow  by  my  best  Genius,  in  a  sillable. 
Never  to  speake  vexation  ;  I  will  study 
Service  and  friendship  with  a  zealous  sorrow 
For  my  past  incivility  towards  'ee. 

Bass.   Heydey  !  good  words,  good  words !  I 
must  beleeve  'em. 
And  be  a  coxcombe  for  my  labor. 

Org.  Use  not 

So  hard  a  language;   your  misdoubt  is  cause- 

lesse : 
For  instance :  if  you  promise  to  put  on 
A  constancy  of  patience,  such  a  patience 
As  chronicle  or  history  ne're  mentioned. 
As  followes  not  example,  but  shall  stand 


Scene  L]  ^^0  HBrOfeeU  ^tm  253 

A  wonder  and  a  theame  for  imitation,  35 

The  first,  the  index  pointing  to  a  second, 
I  will  acquaint  'ee  with  an  unmatch'd  secret 
Whose  knowledge  to  your  griefes  shall  set  a 
period. 
Bass.  Thou  canst  not,  Orgilus  j  'tis  in  the 
power 
Of  the  gods  onely  ;  yet,  for  satisfaction,  40 

Because  I  note  an  earnest  in  thine  utterance, 
Unforc'd  and  naturally  free,  be  resolute 
The  virgin  bayes  shall  not  withstand  the  light- 
ning 
With  a  more  carelesse   danger  than  my  con- 
stancy 
The  full  of  thy  relation ;  could  it  move  45 

Distraction  in  a  senselesse  marble  statue, 
It  should  finde  me  a  rocke:  I  doe  expect  now 
Some  truth  of  unheard  moment. 

Org.  To  your  patience 

You  must  adde  privacie,  as  strong  in  silence 
As  mysteries  lock'd  up  in  Joves  owne  bosome.    50 

Bass.  A  skull  hid  in  the  earth  a  treble  age, 
Shall  sooner  prate. 

Org.  Lastly,  to  such  direction 

As  the  severity  of  a  glorious  action 
Deserves  to  lead  your  wisdome  and  your  judge- 
ment. 
You  ought  to  yeeld  obedience. 


254  ®tie  llBrofeen  f^tm  [act  v. 

Bass.  With  assurance  55 

Of  will  and  thankfulnesse. 

Org.  With  manly  courage 

Please  then  to  follow  me. 

Bass.  Where  e're,  I  feare  not. 

Exeunt  omnes. 

SCAENE  2.    \A  room  of  state  in  the  palace^ 

Lowd  musicke.  Enter  Groneas  and  Hemophil  leading 
Euphranea  ;  Christalla  and  Philema  leading  Pro- 
phi  lus  ;  Nearchus  supporting  Calantha  ;  Crotolony 
and  Amelus.  Cease  loud  musicke ;  all  make  a 
stand. 

Calantha.  We  misse  our  servant  Ithocles  and 
Orgilus ; 
On  whom  attend  they? 

Crotolon.  My  sonne,  gracious  princesse, 

Whisper'd    some  new  device,  to  which   these 

revels 
Should  be  but  usher ;  wherein  I  conceive 
Lord  Ithocles  and  he  himselfe  are  actors.  5 

Cal.    A    faire    excuse    for    absence :    as    for 
Bassanes, 
Delights  to  him  are  troublesome ;  Armostes 
Is  with  the  king  ? 

Crot.  He  is. 

Cal.  On  to  the  dance  ! 


Scene  II.]  ®l)e  ^IBtOfent  ^tUXt  255 

Deare  cozen,  hand  you  the  bride;  the  bride- 

groome  must  be 
Intrusted  to  my  courtship  :  be  not  jealous,  10 

Euphranea;  I  shall  scarcely  prove  a  temptresse. 
Fall  to  our  dance. 

Musicke.  Nearchus  dances  with  Euphraneay  Prophilus 
with  Calanthaj  Christalla  with  Hemophil,  Philema 
with  Groneas,  Dance  the  first  change ;  during 
whichy  enter  Armostes. 

Armostes,  The  king  your  father's  dead. 

In  Calanthd's  eare, 
Cal,  To  the  other  change. 
Arm.  Is't  possible  ? 

Dance  againe.   Enter  Bassanes, 
Bassanes  [whispers  Cal.'j,  O,  madam! 

Penthea,  poore  Penthea*s  starv'd. 

Cal.  Beshrew  thee ! 

Lead  to  the  next. 

Bass.  Amazement  duls  my  senses.  15 

Dance  againe.    Enter  Orgilus. 
Orgilus   [whispers    Cal.'j .   Brave    Ithocles    is 

murther'd,  murther'd  cruelly. 
Cal.   How  dull  this  musicke  sounds  !  strike 
;.        up  more  sprightly  ; 
Our  footings  are  not  active  like  our  heart. 
Which  treads  the  nimbler  measure. 

Org.  I  am  thunder-strooke. 

9  Deare.   G-D  omits. 


256  Wtit  Brofeen  l^eart  [act  v. 

Lasf  change.    Cease  musicke. 

Cal,  So,  let  us  breath  a  while :  —  hath  not 
this  motion  20 

Rais'd  fresher  colour  on  your  cheeks  ? 

Near.  Sweet  princesse, 

A  perfect  purity  of  blood  enamels 
The  beauty  of  your  white. 

Cal.  We  all  looke  cheerfully  : 

And,  cozen,  *tis,  me  thinks,  a  rare  presumption 
In  any  who  prefers  our  lawfull  pleasures  25 

Before  their  owne  sowre  censure,  to  interrupt 
The  custome  of  this  ceremony  bluntly. 

Near.  None  dares,  lady. 

Cal.  Yes,  yes ;  some  hollow  voyce  delivered 
to  me 
How  that  the  king  was  dead. 

Arm.  The  king  is  dead.  30 

That  fatall  newes  was  mine  ;  for  in  mine  armes 
He  breath'd  his  last,  and  with  his  crowne  be- 

queath'd  'ee 
Your  mothers  wedding  ring,  which  here  I  tender. 

Crot.  Most  strange ! 

Cal.  Peace  crown  his  ashes  ! 

We  are  queen,  then.  35 

Near.  Long  live  Calantha !  Sparta's  soveraigne 
queene ! 

Omnes.  Long  live  the  queene  ! 

21  your.    G-D,  our. 


Scene  II-I  tET^C  HSrOfeeiT  ^tm  257 

Cal.  What  whispered  Bassanes  ? 

Bass.  That  my  Penthea,  miserable  soule, 
Was  starv'd  to  death. 

Cal.  Shee's  happy ;  she  hath  finishM 

A  long  and  painefuU  progresse.  —  A  third  mur- 

mure  4° 

PiercM  mine  unwilling  eares. 

Org.  That  Ithocles 

Was  murtherM ;  rather  butcher'd,had  not  bravery 
Of  an  undaunted  spirit,  conquering  terror, 
Proclaim'd  his  last  act  triumph  over  ruine. 

Jrm.   How  !  murther'd  ! 

Cal.  By  whose  hand  ? 

Org.  By  mine ;  this  weapon  45 

Was  instrument  to  my  revenge  :  the  reasons 
Are  just  and  knowne ;  quit  him  of  these,  and 

then 
Never  liv'd  gentleman  of  greater  merit, 
Hope,  or  abiliment  to  steere  a  kingdome. 

Crot.  Fye,  Orgilus  ! 

Euphranea.  Fye,  brother ! 

Cal.  You  have  done  it.  50 

Bass.  How  it  was  done  let  him  report,  the 
forfeit 
Of  whose  alleagance  to  our  lawes  doth  covet 
Rigour  of  justice;  but  that  done  it  is 
Mine  eyes  have  beene  an  evidence  of  credit 
Too  sure  to  be  convinc'd.  Armostes,  rent  not     55 


258  tET^e  Brobm  J^eart  [act  v. 

Thine  arteries  with   hearing   the  bare  circum- 
stances 
Of  these  calamities  :  thou'st  lost  a  nephew, 
A  neece,  and  I  a  wife  :  continue  man  still ; 
Make  me  the  patterne  of  digesting  evils, 
Who  can  out-live  my  mighty  ones,  not  shrink- 
ing 60 
At  such  a  pressure  as  would  sinke  a  soule 
Into  what's  most  of  death,  the  worst  of  horrors. 
But  I  have  seal'd  a  covenant  with  sadnesse. 
And  enter'd  into  bonds  without  condition 
To  stand  these  tempests  calmely  j  marke  me, 

nobles,  *  65 

I  doe  not  shed  a  teare,  not  for  Penthea ! 
Excellent  misery  ! 

Cal.  We  begin  our  reigne 

With  a  first  act  of  justice:  thy  confession, 
Unhappy  Orgilus,  doomes  thee  a  sentence ; 
But  yet  thy  fathers  or  thy  sisters  presence  70 

Shall  be  excus'd :  give,  Crotolon,  a  blessing 
To  thy  lost  Sonne :  Euphranea,  take  a  farewell. 
And  both  be  gone. 

Crot.  \to  Org.l.    Confirme  thee,  noble  sorrow. 
In  worthy  resolution. 

Euph.  Could  my  teares  speake. 

My  griefes  were  sleight. 

Org.  All  goodnesse  dwell  amongst  yee  :     75 

75  goodnesse.   Q,  gooddesse. 


Scene  II.]  ^\)t  WtO^XtXl  J^eatt  259 

Enjoy  my  sister,  Prophilus ;  my  vengeance 
Aym'd  never  at  thy  prejudice. 

Cai.  Now  w^ithdraw. 

Exeunt  Crotolon,  Prophilus  ^  Euphranea. 

Bloody  relator  of  thy  staines  in  blood, 

For  that  thou  hast  reported  him  vi^hose  fortunes 

And  life  by  thee  are  both  at  once  snatch'd  from 

him,  ^o 

With  honourable  mention,  make  thy  choyce 
Of  what  death  likes  thee  best ;  there's  all  our 

bounty. 
But  to  excuse  delayes,  let  me,  deare  cozen, 
Intreat  you  and  these  lords  see  execution 
Instant  before  'ee  part. 

JSfear.  Your  will  commands  us.  85 

Org.  One  suit,  just  queene,  my  last ;  vouch- 
safe your  clemency 
That  by  no  common  hand  I  be  divided 
From  this  my  humble  frailty. 

Cal.  To  their  wisdomes 

Who  are  to  be  spectators  of  thine  end 
I  make  the  reference  :  those  that  are  dead  90 

Are  dead ;  had  they  not  now  dyM,  of  necessity 
They  must   have   payd  the  debt  they  ow'd  to 

nature 
One  time  or  other.  —  Use  dispatch,  my  lords  ; 
Wee'll  suddenly  prepare  our  coronation. 

Exeunt  Calanthay  Philema,  Christalla, 


26o  tir^r  315roten  l^eart  [act  v. 

Arm.  'Tis  strange  these  tragedies  should  never 
touch  on  95 

Her  female  pitty. 

Bass.  She  has  a  masculine  spirit : 

And  wherefore  should  I  pule,  and,  like  a  girle, 
Put  finger  in  the  eye  ?  let's  be  all  toughnesse, 
Without  distinction  betwixt  sex  and  sex. 

Near.  Now,  Orgilus,  thy  choyce. 

Org.  To  bleed  to  death.  loo 

Arm.  The  executioner  ? 

Org.  My  selfe,  no  surgeon  j 

I  am  well  skillM  in  letting  blood.   Bind  fast 
This  arme,  that  so  the  pipes  may  from  their  con- 
duits 
Convey  a  full  streame.  Here's  a  skilfull  instru- 
ment : 
Onely  I  am  a  beggar  to  some  charity  105 

To  speed  me  in  this  execution 
By  lending  th'other  pricke  to  th'tother  arme, 
When  this  is  bubling  life  out. 

Bass.  I  am  for  'ee. 

It  most  concernes  my  art,  my  care,  my  credit ; 
Quicke,  fillet  both  his  armes. 

Org.  Gramercy,  friendship  !  no 

Such  curtesies  are  reall  which  flow  cheerefully 
Without  an  expectation  of  requitall. 
Reach  me  a  staffe  in  this  hand.  If  a  pronenesse 

WQ  hh.   Q,  this,  112  expectation.  Q,  expection. 


Scene  U.]  ^j^t  llBrOfeen  fl^tntt  261 

Or  custome  in  my  nature  from  my  cradle 
Had  beene  inclined   to  fierce   and  eager  blood- 
shed, 115 
A  coward  guilt,  hid  in  a  coward  quaking. 
Would  have  betray'd  [my]  fame  to  ignoble  flight 
And  vagabond  pursuit  of  dreadfull  safety : 
But  looke  upon  my  steddinesse,  and  scorne  not 
The  sicknesse  of  my  fortune,  which  since  Bas- 

sanes  lao 

Was  husband  to  Penthea  had  laine  bed-rid : 
We  trifle  time  in  words  :  thus  I  shew  cunning 
In  opening  of  a  veine  too  full,  too  lively. 
j^rm.  Desperate  courage ! 
Org.  Honourable  infamy ! 

Hemophil.  I  tremble  at  the  sight. 
Groneas.  Would  I  were  loose !  125 

Bass.  It    sparkles     like    a    lusty    wine    new 
broacht ; 
The  vessell   must  be  sound  from  which   it  is- 
sues. 
Graspe  hard  this  other  sticke:  I'le  be  as  nimble  — 
But  prethe,  looke  not  pale  —  have  at  *ee  !  stretch 

out 
Thine  arme  with  vigor  and  unshooke  vertue.      130 

\Opens  the  vein.'\ 

117  betray'  d  my  fame.    Q  omits  my.   G-D,  betray'd  me. 
124  Honourable  infamy.   So  Q.  G-D  gives  this  speech  to  Near- 
chus. 

130  unshooke.  G-D,  unshak[en]. 


262  ®^e  Broken  J^eart  [Actv. 

Good  !   O,  I  envy  not  a  rivall  fitted 
To  conquer  in  extremities ;  this  pastime 
Appeares  majesticall :  some  high  tun'd  poem 
Hereafter  shall  deliver  to  posterity  > 

The  writers  glory  and  his  subjects  triumph.        135 
How  is't  man  ?  droope  not  yet. 

Org.  I  feele  no  palsies: 

On  a  paire  royall  doe  I  wait  in  death ; 
My  soveraigne,  as  his  liegeman;  on  my  mistresse, 
As  a  devoted  servant;  and  on  Ithocles, 
As  if  no  brave,  yet  no  unworthy  enemy  :  140 

Nor  did  I  use  an  engine  to  intrap 
His  life,  out  of  a  slavish  feare  to  combate 
Youth,  strength,  or  cunning,  but  for  that  I  durst 

not 
Ingage  the  goodnesse  of  a  cause  on  fortune, 
By  which  his  name  might   have  out-fac'd  my 

vengeance.  145 

Oh,  Tecnicus,  inspir'd  with  Phoebus  fire ! 
I  call  to  mind  thy  augury,  'twas  perfect ; 
Revenge  proves  its  owne  executioner. 
When  feeble  man  is  bending  to  his  mother, 
The  dust  'a  was  first  fram'd  on,  thus  he  totters.  150 

Bass.  Life's  fountaine  is  dry'd  up. 

Org,  So  falls  the  standards 

Of  my  prerogative  in  being  a  creature ! 
A  mist  hangs  o're  mine  eyes ;  the  sun's  bright 
splendor 


Scene  IL]  ^\\t  llBrOfeeit  ^mt  263 

Is  clouded  in  an  everlasting  shadow : 

Welcome  thou  yce  that  sit'st  about  my  heart,    155 

No  heat  can  ever  thaw  thee.  ^y^^- 

Near.  Speech  hath  left  him. 

Bass.  A'   has   shooke  hands  with  time:   his 
funerall  urne 
Shall  be  my  charge  :  remove  the  bloodlesse  bodie. 
The  coronation  must  require  attendance; 
That  past,  my  few  dayes  can  be  but  one  mourn- 
ing. Exeunt.  160 

[SCENA  TERTIA.  A  temple?^ 

An  altar  covered  with  white ;  two  lights  of  virgin 
wax.  Musicke  of  recorders ;  during  which  enter 
foure  bearing  Ithocles  on  a  hea  [r]  se  or  in  a  chair ey 
in  a  rich  robe,  and  a  crowne  on  his  head ;  place  him 
on  one  side  of  the  altar.  After  him  enter  Calantha 
in  a  white  robe  and  crown*  d ;  Euphranea,  Phi- 
lemay  Christalla  in  white  ;  Nearchusy  Armostesy 
Crotolony  ProphiluSy  Amelusy  Bassanesy  Hemophily 
and  Groneas.  Calantha  goes  and  kneeles  before 
the  altar y  the  rest  stand  off,  the  women  kneeling 
behind.  Cease  recorders  during  her  devotions.  . 
iS^/]  e  musicke.  Calantha  and  the  rest  rise,  do* 
ing  obeysance  to  the  altar. 

Calantha.  Our  orisons  are  heard  ;  the  gods  are 
mercifull. 
Now  tell  me,  you  whose  loyalties  payes  tribute 


264  tEPlje  Broken  l^earc  iactv. 

To  us  your  lawfull  soveraigne,  how  unskilfull 

Your  duties  or  obedience  is  to  render 

Subjection  to  the  scepter  of  a  virgin,  5 

Who  have  beene  ever  fortunate  in  princes 

Of  masculine  and  stirring  composition. 

A  woman  has  enough  to  governe  wisely 

Her  owne  demeanours,  passions,  and  divisions. 

A  nation  warlike  and  inur'd  to  practice  10 

Of  policy  and  labour  cannot  brooke 

A  feminate  authority:  we  therefore 

Command  your  counsaile,  how  you  may  advise 

us 
In  choosing  of  a  husband  whose  abilities 
Can  better  guide  this  kingdome. 

Nearchus,  Roy  all  lady,       15 

Your  law  is  in  your  will. 

Armostes.  We  have  scene  tokens 

Of  constancy  too  lately  to  mistrust  it. 

Crotolon.    Yet  if  your  highnesse  settle  on  a 
choice 
By  your  owne  judgement  both  allow'd  and  likM 

of, 
Sparta  may  grow  in  power,  and  proceed  20 

To  an  increasing  height. 

CaL  Hold  you  the  same  minde  ? 

Bass.  Alas,  great  mistris,  reason  is  so  clouded 
With  the  thicke  darkenesse  of  my  infinite  woes 

23  infinite.   Q,  infinites. 


Scene  III.]       ^1)0  HBrobetx  J^eatt  265 

That  I  forecast  nor  dangers,  hopes,  or  safety. 

Give  me  some  corner  of  the  world  to  weare  out  25 

The  remnant  of  the  minutes  I  must  number, 

Where  1   may  heare  no  sounds  but  sad  com- 
plaints 

Of  virgins  who  have  lost  contracted  partners; 

Of  husbands  howling  that  their  wives  were  rav- 
isht 

By  some  untimely  fate;  of  friends  divided  30 

By  churlish  opposition ;  or  of  fathers 

Weeping  upon  their  childrens   slaughtered  car- 
casses ; 

Or  daughters  groaning  ore  their  fathers  hearses; 

And   I   can  dwell   there,  and  with  these  keepe 
consort 

As  musicall  as  theirs.    What  can  you  looke  for  35 

From  an  old,  foolish,  peevish,  doting  man 

But  crasinesse  of  age  ? 
Cal.   Cozen  of  Argos. 
Near,  Madam. 

Cal.  Were  I  presently 

To  choose  you  for  my  lord,  He  open  freely 

What  articles  I  would  propose  to  treat  on  40 

Before  our  marriage. 

Near.  Name  them,  vertuous  lady. 

Cal.   I  would  presume  you  would  retaine  the 
royalty 

Of  Sparta  in  her  owne  bounds ;  then  in  Argos 


266  Wi)t  llBroken  l^eart  [actv. 

Armostes  might  be  viceroy;  in  Messene 

Might  Crotolon  beare  sway;  and  Bassanes —     45 

Bass.   I,  queene  !   alas,  what  I  ? 

Cal.  Be  Sparta's  marshall: 

The  multitudes  of  high  imployments  could  not 
But  set  a  peace  to  private  griefes.    These  gen- 
tlemen, 
Groneas  and  Hemophil,  with  worthy  pensions 
Should  wait  upon  your  person  in  your  chamber.  50 
I  would  bestow  Christalla  on  Amelus, 
Shee'U  prove  a  constant  wife ;  and  Philema 
Should  into  Vesta's  temple. 

Bass.  This  is  a  testament ! 

It  sounds  not  like  conditions  on  a  marriage. 

Near.  All  this  should  be  perform'd. 

Cal.  Lastly,  for  Prophilus,  55 

He  should  be,  cozen,  solemnly  invested 
In  all  those  honors,  titles,  and  preferments 
Which  his  deare  friend  and   my  neglected  hus- 
band 
Too  short  a  time  enjoy'd. 

Prophilus.  I  am  unworthy 

To  live  in  your  remembrance. 

Euphranea.  Excellent  lady  !  60 

Near.   Madam,  what  meanes  that  word,  "  ne- 
glected husband"? 

Cal.  Forgive  me  :  now  I  turne  to  thee,  thou 
shadow 


Scene  III.]  ^j^t  WtOl^tXt  J^eatt  267 

Of  my  contracted  lord  !   Beare  witnesse  all, 
I  put  my  mother['s]  wedding  ring  upon 
His  finger;   'twas  my  fathers  last  bequest.  65 

Thus  I  new  marry  him  whose  wife  I  am  j 
Death  shall  not  separate  us.   O  my  lords, 
I  but  deceived  your  eyes  with  anticke  gesture. 
When  one  newes  straight  came  hudling  on  an- 
other 
Of  death,  and  death,  and  death ;  still  I  danc'd 

forward ;  70 

But  it  strooke  home,  and  here,  and   in  an  in- 
stant. 
Be  such  meere  women,  who  with   shreeks  and 

out-cries 
Can  vow  a  present  end  to  all  their  sorrowes, 
Yet  live    to  vow  new  pleasures,  and  out-live 

them  : 
They  are  the  silent  griefes  which  cut  the  hart- 
strings  ;  75 
Let  me  dye  smiling. 

Near,  'Tis  a  truth  too  ominous. 

Cal.   One  kisse  on  these  cold  lips,  my  last ! 
Cracke,  cracke  ! 
Argos  now's  Sparta's  king.  Command  the  voyces 
Which  wait  at  th'  altar  now  to  sing  the  song 
I  fitted  for  my  end. 

Near,  Sirs,  the  song  !  80 

74  'V01V.      G-D  substitutes  court. 


268  ^i\t  »ofeen  l&eart  iactv. 

^  Song 

All.      Glories i  pleasures y  pomps ^  delightSy  and  ease. 
Can  but  please 
[7"^']  outward  senses,  when  the  mind 
Is  Jiot  untroubled,  or  by  peace  refiti^  d. 

1  Crownes  may  flourish  and  decay ^  g- 
Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away. 

2  Youth  may  revell,  yet  it  must 
Lye  downe  in  a  bed  of  dust. 

3  Earthly  honors  flow  and  wast. 

Time  alone  doth  change  and  last. '  90 

All.    Sorrowes  mingled  with  contents  prepare 
Rest  for  care  ; 
Love  onely  reignes  in  death :  though  art 
Can  find  no  comfort  for  a  broken  heart. 

\_Calantha  dies.'\ 

Arm.  Looke  to  the  queene. 

Bass.  Her  heart  is  broke  indeed.  95 

O    royall    maid,  would    thou   hadst    mist    this 

part ! 
Yet  'twas  a  brave  one:   I  must  weepe  to  see 
Her  smile  in  death. 

Arm.  Wise  Tecnicus  !  thus  said  he  : 

When  youth  is  ripe.,  and  age  from  time  doth  party 
The  livelesse  trunke  shall  wed  the  broken  heart.  100 

'Tis  here  fulfill'd.  | 

83  Th" .    Q  is  defective  in  printing  here.  } 

84  h  not.   G-D,  Is  [or].  \ 


Scene  iii.j       tIPlje  llBrofeen  J^eart  269 

Near.  I  am  your  king. 

Omnes,  Long  live 

Nearchus,  King  of  Sparta  ! 

Near.  Her  last  will 

Shall  never  be  digrest  from :   wait  in  order 
Upon  these  faithfull  lovers  as  becomes  us. 

The  counsels  of  the  gods  are  never  knowne,  105 

Till  men  can  call  th'  effects  of  them  their 
owne. 


FINIS. 


THE    EPILOGUE, 

IVhere  noble  judgements  and  cleare  eyes  are  fix* d 
To  grace  endevour^  there  sits  truth  not  mix*d 
With  ignorance ;   those  censures  may  command 
Beleefe  which  talke  not  till  they  understand. 
Let  some  say^  "  This  was  flat"  ;  so7ne.,  "  Here  the 

sceane  5 

Fell  from  its  height  *' ;  Another  that  "  the  meane 
Was  ill  observ'd  in  such  a  growing  passion 
As  it  transcended  either  state  or  fashion": 
Some  few  may  cry^  "  'Twas  pretty  well,"  or  so^ 
"But, — "  and  there  shrugge  in  silence:  yet  we 

know  10 

Our  writers  ayme  was  in  the  whole  addrest 
Well  to  deserve  of  all^  but  please  the  best ; 
Which  granted^  by  th'  allowance  of  this  straine 
THE  BROKEN  HEART  may   be  piec't  up 

againe. 


FINIS 


jl^otcjs  to  Clje  istofeen  1$tatt 

For  the  meaning  of  single  ivorJs  see  the  Glossary. 

William,  Lord  Craven.  Bom  in  1606,  Craven  entered  as 
a  commoner  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  in  1623,  but  before  he  was 
twenty  he  was  enlisted  in  the  service  of  the  Prince  of  Orange.  He 
gained  some  military  distinction  under  Maurice  and  his  successor 
Frederick  Henry,  and  on  returning  to  England  was  knighted  by 
Charles  I,  4  March,  1627.  Eight  days  later  he  was  created  Baron 
Craven  of  Hampsted  Marshall,  and  not  long  afterward  was  named 
a  member  of  the  permanent  council  of  war.  In  1631  he  was  one 
of  the  commanders  of  the  English  forces  sent  to  the  aid  of  Gusta- 
vus  Adolphus.  In  1632  he  was  wounded  at  the  siege  of  Kreuznach, 
where  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  valor.  Returning  to  England, 
he  was  placed.  May  12th,  1633,  '^^  ^^^  council  of  Wales,  and  on 
the  31st  of  August  his  university  created  him  Master  of  Arts.  It 
would  appear  that  Ford's  dedication  to  him  of  The  Broken  Heart  in 
this  same  year  was  part  of  a  general  welcome  accorded  to  a  roman- 
tic young  hero.  There  is  a  tradition  that  Lord  Craven  was  married 
to  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  daughter  to  James  I;  it  is  certain  that 
he  displayed  a  generous  and  life-long  attachment  to  her  cause. 

For  further  details,  see  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biography. 

138,  16.  a  truth.  In  the  quarto  ^,  and  the  initial  /,  are  capital- 
ized and  all  the  letters  are  printed  in  the  blackest  and  most  emphatic 
type.  Similar  assurance  is  given  on  the  title  page  oi  Per  kin  Warbecky 
which  is  called  "a  strange  truth";  and  on  the  title  page  of  the 
JVitch  of  Edmonton  —  "a  known  true  story.  " 

I47>  43-4-    He  .  .  .  fixt.    Cf.    The  Sun's  Darling,  v,  i : 

**  O,  may  you  all,  like  stars,  while  swift  time  moves, 
Stand  fix'd  in  firmaments  of  blest  content." 

148,  66.  provinciall  garland.  **  The  wreath  (of  laurel) 
which  she  had  prepared;  and  which  the  ancients  conferred  on  those 


272  jpotrs; 

who,  like  Ithocles,  had  added  ^pro'vince  to  the  empire."  GifFord. 
Weber  compared  the  passage  in  Hamlet^  iii,  ii,  where  Pro'vincial 
means  of  Pro'vence ;  the  Oxford  English  Dictionary  adopts  this 
interpretation  of  the  passage  in  The  Broken  Heart. 

149,  79-81.   Whom  heaven  .  .  .  madding.  Cf.  The 

Suns  Darling,  iv,  i  : 

*'  Whom  the  creatures 
Of  every  age  and  quality  post  madding 
From  land  and  sea  to  meet 
Shall  wait  upon  thy  nod,  Fortune  and  Cupid." 

149,  89.  These  fit  sleights.  This  slighting  language  suit- 
able to  slight  services. 

151,  125.  I  have  not  put  my  love  to  use.  The  lan- 
guage of  money-lenders :  I  have  not  lent  my  love  to  any  one,  hop- 
ing returns. 

152,  132-  In  forma  pauperis.  In  the  character  of  a  poor 
man.  "  Paupers,  or  such  as  will  swear  themselves  not  worth  five 
pounds,  are  to  have  original  writs  and  subpoenas  gratis,  and  coun- 
sel and  attorney  assigned  them  without  fee,  and  are  excused  from 
paying  costs  when  plaintiff."  W.  C.  Anderson's  Dictionary  of 
Laiv. 

154,  21-2.  malice  of  present  hopes.  The  misfortunes 

which  my  present  hopes  have  met. 

159,116.  Mewl  —  asburd  I  "  A  term  of  the  schools,  and 
is  used  when  false  conclusions  are  illogically  deduced  from  the  op- 
ponent's premises."    Gifford. 

I59>  "7-  The  metaphysicks  are  but  speculations. 

Compare  with  this  and  the  preceding  statement  about  philosophy 
Bacon's  arraignment  of  the  "degenerate  learning"  of  the  school- 
men in  the  first  book,  of  the  Ad-vancement  of  Learning  :  "  For  the 
wit  and  mind  of  man,  if  it  work  upon  matter,  which  is  the  con- 
templation of  the  creatures  of  God,  worketh  according  to  the  stuff, 
and  is  limited  thereby  5  but  if  it  work  upon  itself,  as  the  spider 
worketh  his  web,  then  it  is  endless,  and  brings  forth  indeed  cob- 
webs of  learning,  admirable  for  the  fineness  of  thread  and  work, 
but  of  no  substance  or  profit."  Bacon's  fVorks,  London,  1902, 
pp.  242-243. 


iliotes;  273 

163,  I.  I  'II  have  that  window  .  .  .  dam'd  up.  The 

parallelism  of  the  situations  makes  one  suspect  this  to  be  an  echo 
of  "  First,  I  will  have  this  wicked  lij;ht  damned  up,"  Volpone,  ii, 
iii. 

163,  5-6.  the  deformed  bear-whelpe  . .  •  into  the  act. 

Cf.  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  London,  1907,  vol.  I,  p.  30: 
*'  I  must  for  that  cause  do  my  business  myself,  and  was  therefore 
enforced,  as  a  Bear  doth  her  whelps,  to  bring  forth  this  confused 
lump,  I  had  not  time  to  lick  it  into  form,  as  she  doth  her  young 
ones. "  This  notion  is  of  hoary  antiquity  :  see  Sir  Thomas  Browne's 
Pseudodoxia  Epidemica,  bk.  iii,  chap.  6. 

164,  26-7.  the  head  Which  they  have  branch'd.  An 

allusion  to  the  familiar  notion  that  horns  grow  on  the  forehead  of  a 
man  whose  wife  has  been  unfaithful  to  him. 

165,  45-6.  the  king  .  .  .  gray  beard.  This  piece  of 
news  is  curiously  matched  as  a  specimen  of  court  gossip  by  a  passage 
in  a  letter  from  the  Rev.  Jos.  Mead  to  Sir  Martin  Stuteville,  dated  at 
Christ's  College,  Feb.  22,  1 627-8 :  *'  On  Thursday  was  sennight,  his 
grace's  second  heir  was  christened  at  Wallingford  House.  .  .  .  His 
majesty  came  hither  apparelled  in  a  long  soldier's  coat,  all  covered 
with  gold  lace,  and  his  hair  all  gaufred  and  frizzled,  which  he  never 
used  before."  The  whole  passage  on  news,  however,  seems  mod- 
eled on  Volpone,  ii,  i. 

168,  103-5.  This  house,  methinks,  .  .  .  Nearer  the 

court.   Apparently  an  echo  of  Women  Beivare  Women,  iii,  i : 

*'  Methinks  this  house  stands  nothing  to  my  mind  j 
I  'd  have  some  pleasant  lodging  i'  the  high  street,  sir; 
Or  if  'twere  near  the  court,  sir,  that  were  much  better." 

177-8,  1 1 7-1 25.  Brothers  and  sisters  ...  Is  in  re- 
quest. In  Burton's  Jw<2romy  of  Melancholy  (part  in,  sect,  iii, 
mem.  11),  the  character  of  the  morbidly  jealous  man  is  very  mi- 
nutely analyzed;  "  He  will  sometimes  sigh,  weep,  sob  for  anger  .  .  . 
swear  and  belie,  slander  any  man,  curse,  threaten,  brawl,  scold,  fight; 
and  sometimes  again  flatter,  and  speak  fair,  ask  forgiveness,  kiss  and 
coll,  condemn  his  rashness  and  folly,  vow,  protest  and  swear  he  will 
never  do  so  again;  and  then  eftsoons,  impatient  as  he  is,  rave,  roar, 
and  lay  about  him  like  a  madman  ...  so  he  continues  off  and  on, 


274  i^otes? 

as  the  toy  takes  him  .  .  .  accusing  and  suspecting  not  strangers  only, 
but  Brothers  and  Sisters,  Fathers  and  Mothers,  nearest  and  dearest 
friends."  That  this  description  so  accurately  applies  to  Bassanes  is 
probably  not  accidental.  The  influence  of  Burton's  treatise  would 
sufficiently  explain  what  GiflFord  looked  upon  as  unnatural  inconsist- 
encies in  the  character  of  Bassanes. 

i8o,  21-4.  What  heaven  .  .  .  perfection?  This  senti- 
ment may  profitably  be  compared  with  a  passage  in  Ford's  Honour 
Triumphant :  "The  self  alone  means,  therefore,  that  were  to  be 
ordained  for  a  provocation  and  incitement  to  livelihood  of  manhood 
was  the  quintessence,  rarity,  yea,  rare  quintessence  of  divine  aston- 
ishment, Beauty,"     fVorksy  vol.  iii,  p.  352. 

185,  125.  Politicke  French.  It  is  difficult  to  understand 
where  Orgilus  acquired  this  tongue. 

196,  109.  My  treasons.  For  a  subject  to  aspire  to  the  hand 
of  the  heir  to  the  throne  might  be  construed  as  treasonable. 

198,  149-150,  Franks  .  .  .  swine-security.  An  allu- 
sion "to  the  small  enclosures  [franks^  as  distinguished  from  styes) 
in  which  boars  were  fattened."    Giffiord. 

219,  21-2.  grace  my  hopes  .  .  .  livery.  Give  me  some 

badge  to  wear  as  a  sign  that  I  am  enrolled  as  your  servant. 

223,  102-4.  Painted  colts  .  .  .  lion.  "Our  old  writers 
used  colt  .  .  .  for  a  compound  of  rudeness  and  folly.  ...  It  would 
seem  that  there  is  also  an  allusion  to  some  allegorical  representation 
of  this  kind  in  *  the  painted  cloth.'  "  Gifford.  It  was  a  popular  be- 
lief that  lions  were  afraid  of  virgins,  cocks,  and  the  blood  royal ;  a 
herald's  coat  adorned  with  the  king's  insignia  might  be  presumed 
to  have  the  same  awe-inspiring  power. 

225,  120-1.    The  hurts  are  yet  but  mortall  .   .   . 

deadly.  Giffiard  thinks  that  the  press  here  confused  but  and  not ; 
otherwise,  he  says,  it  is  not  easy  to  discover  how  the  author  distin- 
guished mortal  from  deadly,  "  unless,  indeed,  he  adopted  the  vulgar 
phraseology  of  his  native  place,  and  used  *  mortal '  in  the  sense  of 
very  great,  extreme,  &c." 

227,  14-15.  hony-combe  of  honesty.  The  garland 

of  gOOd-Tvill.  ''The  Honeycomb  of  Honesty,  like  the  '  Gar- 
land of  Good  Will,'  was  probably  one  of  the  popular  miscellanies 
of  the  day."   Giffiard.    The  date  of  the  publication  of  the  Garland 


^otta  275 

of  Good  Will  is  given  by  Weber  as  1 6  3 1 .  Weber  also  notes  another 
allusion  to  it  in  Rowley's  Match  at  Midnight^  which  was  printed 
in  1633.  It  was  reprinted  by  the  Percy  Society,  from  the  edition  of 
1678,  in  vol.  30,  1851. 

235,  162-5.  there  is  a  mastery  .  .  .  food.  There  is  a 
contemporary  ballad  in  the  Shirburn  collection  **  Of  a  maide  now 
dwelling  at  the  towne  of  meurs  in  dutchland^  that  hath  not  taken  any 
foode  this  16  yeares,  and  is  not  yet  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty  ;  the 
which  maide  hath  lately  beene  presented  to  the  lady  elizabethj 
the  king's  daughter  of  england.^^  This  **  maide"  subsisted  in  the 
manner  proposed  by  Bassanes  —  on  perfumes. 

"  My  pure  unspotted  mind  prevaild 
according  to  my  will, 
And  so  my  life  preserved  is 

by  smelling  flow-ers  still." 
Shirburn  Ballads.    Oxford,  1 907,  pp.  55-56. 

246.  the  other  with  an  engine.  Some  simple  mechani- 
cal contrivance  for  holding  fast  the  occupant  of  the  chair.  The 
same  device  is  introduced  in  a  play  by  Ford's  friend  Barnabe  Barnes, 
The  DcviPs  Charter  (1607),  i,  5.  See  G.  D.  vol.  i,  p.  302  for 
other  references. 

257,  55-  Too  sure  to  be  convinc'd.  GifFord  observes  that 
**  convince  is  used  here  in  the  primitive  sense  of  conquered^  o'ver- 
thro'TJUn^ 

268,  81-4.  Glories  .  .  .  peace  refin'd.  Gifford  says  **I 

can  only  reduce  it  to  some  tolerable  meaning  by  reading  *  or '  be- . 
fore  *  untroubled '  instead  of  *  not. '  But  if  one  properly  emphasizes 
"  oufward^""  the  sense  of  the  quarto  is  sufficiently  clear,  in  spite  of 
the  slight  obscurity  of  the  double  negative  :  glories  .  .  .  can  please 
only  the  outivard  senses  when  the  mind  is  troubled  or  not  refined  by 
peace. 


The  place  of  publication  is  London  unless  otherwise  indicated. 

I.  TEXTS 

A.  COLLECTIVE   EDITIONS 

181I.  8vo.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  John  Ford.  With  an 
introduction  and  explanatory  notes  by  Henry  Weber.  Edinburgh. 
2  vols. 

1827.  8vo.  The  Dramatic  Works  of  John  Ford.  With 
notes  critical  and  explanatory  by  W.  Gifford,  Esq.  To  which  are 
added  Fame's  Memorial,  and  Verses  to  the  Memory  of  Ben  Jonson. 
2  vols.  [Contains  the  violent  exposure  of  Weber,  which  was  omit- 
ted by  Dyce  in  1869.] 

1839.  ^^°'  '^"^  Dramatic  Works  of  MassiNGER  and  Ford. 
With  an  introduction  by  Hartley  Coleridge.  Reissued  1840,  1848, 
1 85 1,  etc. 

1869.  8vo.  The  Works  of  John  Ford.  With  notes  critical 
and  explanatory  by  William  Gifford,  Esq.  A  new  edition,  care- 
fully revised,  with  additions  to  the  text  and  to  the  notes  by  the 
Rev.  Alexander  Dyce.    3  vols. 

1895.  8vo.  The  Works  of  John  Ford.  Edited  by  William 
Gifford  with  additions  by  Rev.  Alexander  Dyce.  Now  reissued 
with  further  additions  [by  A.  H.  Bullen]. 

1908.  John  Fordes  Dram atischeWerke.  In  Neudruck  her- 
ausgegeben  von  W.  Bang.  Erster  Band.  Mit  einem  einleitenden 
Essay  :  Forde's  Contribution  to  the  Decadence  of  the  Drama  von 
S.  P.  Sherman  und  einem  Neudruck  von  Dekkers  Penny-Wise, 
Pound-Foolish.  Louvain,  Leipzig,  London.  [Contains  The  Lo-ver^s 
Melancholy  and  Lo-ve^s  Sacrifice,  reproducing  the  spelling  of  the 
original  quartos.  Issued  as  Band  xxiii  of  Materialien  %ur  Kunde  des 
alteren  Englischen  Dramas. '\ 


278  llBibliograpt)^ 

B.   ORIGINAL   EDITIONS 

1606.  4to.  Fame's  Memoriall,  or  the  Earle  of  Devon- 
shire Deceased.  With  his  honourable  life,  peacefull  end  and  sol- 
emne  Funerall.   [British  Museum.] 

1606.  4to.  Honor  Triumphant  :  or  the  Peeres  Challenge, 
BY  Armes  defensible  at  Tilt,  Turney,  and  Barriers.  .  .  . 
Also,  The  Monarches  Meeting  :  or  the  King  of  Denmarkes 
Welcome  into  England.    Tam  Mercurio  quam  Marti. 

1620.  i2mo.  A  Line  of  Life.  Pointing  out  the  Immor- 
talitie  of  a  Vertuous  Name.   W.  S.  for  N.  Butter. 

1629.  4to.  The  Lovers  Melancholy.  Acted  at  the  Private 
House  in  the  Blacke  Friers,  and  publikely  at  the  Globe  by  the 
Kings  Maiesties  Seruants.  ,  .  .  Printed  for  H.  Seile,  and  are  to 
be  sold  at  the  Tygershead  in  Saint  Pauls  Church-yard.  [British 
Museum.] 

1633.  4to.  The  Broken  Heart.  A  Tragedy.  Acted  by  the 
King's  Majesties  Seruants  at  the  Priuate  House  in  the  Black- 
Friers.  Fide  Honor.  Printed  by  I.  B.  for  Hugh  Beeston,  and  are 
to  be  sold  at  his  Shop,  neere  the  Castle  in  Corne-hill.  [Boston  Pub- 
lic Library,  British  Museum.] 

1633.  4to.  LouES  Sacrifice.  A  Tragedie  Receiued  Generally 
Well.  Acted  by  the  Queenes  Majesties  Seruants  at  the  Phoenix  in 
Drury-lane.  .  .  .  Printed  by  I.  B.  for  Hugh  Beeston,  dwelling 
next  the  Castle  in  Cornhill.    [British  Museum.] 

1633.  4to.  'Tis  Pitty  Shee's  a  Whore.  Acted  by  the 
Queenes  Maiesties  Seruants,  at  the  Phoenix  in  Drury-Lane.  .  .  . 
Printed  by  Nicholas  Okes  for  Richard  Collins,  and  are  to  be  sold 
at  his  shop  in  Pauls  Church-yard,  at  the  signe  of  the  three  Kings. 
[Boston  Public  Library,  Library  of  the  University  of  Illinois,  British 
Museum.] 

1634.  4to.  The  Chronicle  Historie  of  Perkin  Warbeck. 
A  Strange  Truth.  Acted  (some-times)  by  the  Queenes  Maiesties 
Servants  at  the  Phoenix  in  Drurie  Lane.  Fide  Honor.  .  ,  .  Printed 
by  T.  P.  for  Hugh  Beeston,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his  shop,  neere 
the  Castle  in  Cornehill.   [Boston  Public  Library,  British  Museum.] 

1638.  4to.  The  Fancies,  Chast  and  Noble.  Presented  by 
the   gueenes  Maiesties  Servants,   at  the  Phoenix   in   Drury-lane. 


llBibliograpt)^  279 

Fide  Honor.  .  .  .  Printed  by  E.  P.  for  Henry  Seile,  and  are  to 
be  sold  at  his  shop,  at  theTygers  Head  in  Fleet  Street,  ovcr-against 
Saint  Dunstans  Church.   [Boston  Public  Library,  British  Museum.] 

1639.  4to.  The  Ladies  Triall.  Acted  by  both  their  Majes- 
ties Servants  at  the  private  house  in  Drury  Lane.  Fide  Honor.  .  .  . 
Printed  by  E.  G.  for  Henry  Shephard,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his 
shop  in  Chancery-lane  at  the  signe  of  the  Bible,  between  Sarjants 
Inne  and  Fleet-street  neere  the  Kings-head  Taverne.  [Harvard 
University  Library,  British  Museum.] 

1653.  4to.  The  Queen:  or  The  Excellency  of  Her  Sex. 
An  Excellent  old  Play,  Found  out  by  a  Person  of  Honour,  and 
given  to  the  Publisher,  Alexander  Goughe.  .  .  .  Printed  by  T.  N. 
for  Thomas  Heath,  in  Russel  Street  neer  the  Piazza  of  Covent- 
Garden.   [Boston  Public  Library,  British  Museum.] 

1656.  4to.  The  Sun's  Darling.  A  Moral  Masque :  as  it  hath 
been  often  presented  at  Whitehall,  by  their  Majesties  Servants  ;  and 
after  at  the  Cock-pit  in  Drury  Lane,  with  great  Applause.   Written 

(  John  Foard      ^ 
by  <       and  >  Gent.    .   .    .    Printed  by  J,  Bell  for  Andrew 

(  Tho.  Decker  J  Penneycuicke.    [British  Museum.] 

1657.  4to.  The  Sun's-Darling  :  A  Moral  Masque:  As  it  hath 
been  often  presented  by  their  Majesties  Servants  5  at  the  Cock-pit 
in  Drury  Lane,  with  great  Applause.   Written 

C  John  Foard       j 
by  <       and  >-  Gent.   .    .    .    Printed  by  J.  Bell,  for  Andrew 

(  Tho,    Decker  )  Penneycuicke.   [British  Museum.] 

1658.  4to.  The  Witch  OF  Edmonton.  A  known  true  Story, 
Composed  into  A  Tragi-Comedy  by  divers  well-esteemed  Poets, 
William  Rowley,  Thomas  Dekker,  John  Ford,  &c.  Acted  by  the 
Princes  Servants,  often  at  the  Cock- Pit  in  Drury-Lane,  once  at 
Court,  with  Singular  Applause.  Never  printed  till  now.  .  .  .  Printed 
by  J.  Cottrel,  for  Edward  Blackmore,  at  the  Angel  in  Paul's  Church- 
yard. 


28o  Bibliograpl)^ 

C.    SELECTIONS 

This  list  includes  reprints  issued  separately  and  tuith  the  works  of 
other  authors^  translations^  and  extracts. 

1714.    i2mo.   The  Chronicle  History  of  Perkin  Warbeck. 

1744.  izmo.  'Tis  Pity  She's  A  Whore.  A  Select  Collection 
of  Old  Plays,  vol.  5. 

1780.  8vo.  'Tis  Pity  She's  A  Whore.  A  Select  Collection  of 
Old  Plays,  vol.  8. 

1808.  Specimens  of  English  Dramatic  Poets  Who  Lived 
About  the  Time  of  Shakspeare.  [A  new  edition  in  two  vol- 
umes with  additional  specimens  was  published  in  1835.  Contains 
excerpts  from  The  Lever's  Melancholy,  The  Lady's  Trial,  Lo've's 
Sacrifice,  Perkin  JVarbeck,  'Tis  Pity  She's  a  Whore,  The  Broken 
Heart  —  the  last  followed  by  the  famous  ecstatic  note,  '*The  ex- 
pression of  this  transcendent  scene  almost  bears  me  in  imagination  to 
Calvary  and  the  Cross."] 

1819.  The  Lover's  Melancholy,  iv,  iii.  Campbell's  Speci- 
mens of  the  British  Poets,  vol.  in,  pp.  233—240. 

1 81 9.  Fame's  Memorial.  Edited  by  H.  Haslewood.  Kent: 
Press  of  Lee-Priory. 

1830.  The  Broken  Heart.    The  Old  English  Drama,  vol.  2. 

1831.  The  Lover's  Melancholy,  The  Broken  Heart,  Per- 
kin Warbeck.  New  York  :  Harper's  Family  Library,  Dramatic 
Series,  no.  4,  vol.   i. 

1843.  Honour  Triumphant,  and  a  Line  of  Life.  Shake- 
speare Society. 

1848.  Das  Gebrochene  Herz.  Trauerspiel  in  fiinf  Akten 
.  .  .  nach  dem  Versmasse  des  Originals  iibersetzt  von  M.  Wiener. 
Mit  einem  Vorworte  von  L.  Tieck.  Berlin.  Also  with  the  title-page : 
fohn  Ford' s  dramatise  he  Werke,  Erster  Band. 

1865.  Le  Cchur  Brise.  Contemporains  de  Shakespeare.  John 
Webster  et  John  Ford,  traduits  par  Ernest  Lafond.    Paris. 

1870.  The  Lady's  Trial.  The  Works  of  the  British  Drama- 
tists, edited  by  J.  S.  Keltic.    Another  edition  in  1891.    Edinburgh. 

1888.  The  Lover's  Melancholy,  'Tis  Pity  She  's  a  Whore, 
The  Broken  Heart,  Love  's  Sacrifice,  Perkin  Warbeck.  Edited 


Kbliograp^^  281 

with  an  introduction  and  notes  by  Havelock  Ellis.    The  Best  Plays 
of  the  Old  Dramatists  (^Mermaid  Series'). 

1890.  Perkin  Warbeck.  Famous  Elizabethan  Plays.  Edited 
by  H.  Macaulay  Fitzgibbon.   [Contains  a  brief  notice  of  Ford.] 

1895.  The  Broken  Heart.  Edited  with  notes  and  introduction 
by  Clinton  Scollard.    New  York. 

1895-  Annabella  ['  Tis  Pity  She  'i  A  Whore.'\  Drame  en  cinq 
actes  .    .    .   Traduit  et  adapte  par  M.  Maeterlinck.    Paris. 

1896.  Perkin  Warbeck.  Edited  by  J.  P.  Pickburn  and  J.  Le 
Gay  Brereton. 

1905.  Specimens  of  the  Elizabethan  Drama.  By  W.  H. 
Williams.  Oxford.  [Contains  short  excerpts  from  The  Lover's 
Melancholy,  The  Broken  Heart,  Perkin  fVarbeck,  The  Lady'' s  Trial ; 
see  pp.  397-416.] 

1906.  The  Broken  Heart.  A  Play  written  by  John  Ford. 
Edited  with  a  Preface,  Notes  and  Glossary  by  Oliphant  Smeaton. 

1907.  The  Queen  :  or  The  Excellency  of  Her  Sex.  Nach 
der  Quarto  1653  in  Neudruck  herausgegeben  von  W.  Bang.  Ma~ 
terialien  zur  Kunde  des  alteren  Englischen  Dramas,  xiii.  Louvain, 
Leipzig,  London. 

191 1.  The  Broken  Heart.  The  Chief  Elizabethan  Drama- 
tists, edited  from  the  original  quartos  and  folios  with  notes,  biog- 
raphies, and  bibliographies,  by  W.  A.  Neilson.    Boston. 

II.  WORKS    BIOGRAPHICAL   AND 
CRITICAL 

1687.  The  Lives  of  the  Most  Famous  English  Poets, 
William  Winstanley  [contains  at  page  114  a  list  of  Ford's  plays, 
with  the  remark  that  he  was  "very  beneficial  to  the  Red- Bull  and 
Fortune  Play-houses."] 

1691.  An  Account  of  The  English  Dramatick  Poets, 
Gerard  Langbaine.    Pp.  219-222.    Oxford. 

1811.  8vo.  A  Letter  TO  J.  P.  Kemble,  Esq.,  Involving 
Strictures  on  a  Recent  Edition  of  John  Ford's  Dramatic 
Works.    Printed  at  Cambridge  for  Murray,  London. 

181 1.  8vo.  A  Letter  to  William  Gifford,  Esq.,  on  the 


282  BibUograpl^^ 

Late  Edition  of  Ford's  Plays,  Chiefly  as  Relating  to  Ben 
JoNsoN.    By  Octavius  Gilchrist,  Esq. 

1811.  Ford's  Dramatic  Works  [Weber's  edition],  S^arterly 
Re'vieiv,  Dec,  vol.  vi ;  462-487. 

1812.  Weber's  Edition  of  Ford's  Dramatic  Works, 
Monthly  RevieiVf   March,    240-254,  and   April,    372-386,  vol. 

LXVII. 

1 812.  Gilchrist's  Letter  to  Gifford  j  and  A  Letter  to 
Kemble,  Monthly  Revieiv,  April,  vol.  lxvii,  386-387. 

1812.  8vo.  A  Letter  to  R,  Heber,  Es^.,  Containing 
Some  Observations  on  the  Merits  of  Mr.  Weber's  Late 
Edition  of  Ford's  Dramatic  Works.  [By  J.  Mitford.] 

1 82 1.  The  Plays  and  Poems  of  William  Shakspeare 
with  the  Corrections  and  Illustrations  by  Edmond  Ma- 
lone,  vol.  I,  pp.  402-435. 

1827.  Ford's  Dramatic  Works,  Monthly  Review y  August, 
vol.  V,  497-507- 

1862.  Studien  iJBER  DAS  Englische  Theater,  Morftz  Rapp, 
pp.  94-98.   Tubingen. 

1871.  John  Ford,  A.  C.  Swinburne,  Fortnightly  Review ^  July* 
vol.  X,  pp.  42-63.   [Reprinted  in  Essays  and  Studies,  1875.] 

1875.  A  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature,  A. 
W.  Ward.    2  vols.,  11,  pp.  295-309. 

1879.  John  Ford,  A.  W.  Ward,  Encyclopedia  Britannica. 

1880*  John  Ford  bin  Nachahmer  Shakespeare's,  Max  WolfF. 
Heidelberg. 

1 88 1.      CONTEMPORAINS      ET     SUCCESSEURS     DE      ShAKESPEARE, 

A.    Mezieres,   pp.    330-339.    Paris,    3rd  edition.    [First  edition, 
1863.] 

1887.  A  History  of  Elizabethan  Literature,  George 
Saintsbury.    [Pp.  401-409  in  edition  of  1906.] 

1888.  Metrische  Untersuchungen  zu  John  Ford,  Eduard 
Hannemann.   Halle. 

1889.  John  Ford,  A.  H.  Bullen,  Dictionary  of  National  Biog- 
raphy. 

1891.   The  Old  English  Dramatists,  J.  R.  Lowell.    Boston. 
1 89 1.   A  Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama, 
F.  G.  Fleay.  2  vols.,  i,  pp.  230-235. 


llBibltograjp^^  283 

l895«  ^•^^  Verhaltnis  von  Fords  Perkin  Warbeck  zu  Ba- 
cons Henry  vii,  Victor  Gehler.    Halle. 

1897.  Quellen-Studien  zv  Den  Dramen  George  Chap- 
man's, Philip  Massinger's  und  John  Ford's,  Emil  Koeppel. 
Strassburg. 

1903.  A  History  of  English  Poetry,  W.  J.  Courthope, 
vol.  IV,  pp.  369-385. 

1906.  Ford's  Debt  to  his  Predecessors  and  Contempora- 
ries; AND  his  Contributions  to  the  Decadence  of  the  Drama, 
S.  P.  Sherman.  [An  ill-digested  dissertation  which  reposes  in  manu- 
script in  the  Harvard  University  Library.  Some  of  the  conclusions 
were  used  in  the  introduction  to  W.  Bang's  edition  of  Ford ;  see 
above.  A  portion  dealing  with  the  source  of  The  Broken  Heart  was 
published  in  the  Publ.  of  the  Mod.  Lang.  Assoc. ;  see  below.  Other 
suggestions  regarding  sources  were  mentioned  by  W.  A.  Neilson 
in  the  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature  ;  see  below.  F.  F. 
Pierce  put  the  author  under  obligation  by  utilizing  some  collections 
relating  to  the  collaboration  of  Ford  and  Dekker  in  two  articles 
published  in  Ang/ia ;  see  below.] 

1906.  John  Forde  und  Parthenios  Von  Nikaia,  W.  Bang 
und  H.  de  Vocht.  Englische  Studien,  xxxvi,  392-393. 

1908.  A  New  Play  by  John  Ford  [The  ^wf^n,  edited  by  W. 
Bang],  S.  P.  Sherman,  Modern  Language  Notes,  xxviii,  no.  8, 
pp.  245-249. 

1908.  Elizabethan  Drama,  F.  E.  Schelling.  2  vols.,  11,  pp. 
327-336  and />aii/»z.   Boston. 

1908.  Tragedy,  A.  H.  Thorndike,  pp.  226-229  and  passim. 

1909.  Stella  and  The  Broken  Heart,  S.  P.  Sherman, 
Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association  of  America,  vol. 
XVII,  no.  2,  pp.  274-285. 

191 0.  Ford  and  Shirley,  W.  A.  Neilson,  Cambridge  History 
of  English  Literature,  vol.  vi,  ch.  viii.  [See  also  Index  and  Biblio- 
graphy.] New  York  and  Cambridge,  England. 

1912.  The  Collaboration  of  Dekker  and  Ford,  F.  F. 
Pierce,  Anglia,  xxxvi,  pp.  141-168  and  289-312. 


(BlojSisart 


abiliment,  ability.   B.  H.  v. 

ii,  49. 
affied,    betrothed.     T.    P.   in, 

V,  9- 
anticke,  clown.   B.  H.  n,  i, 

61. 
Areopagite,  a  member  of  the 

court  of  Areopagus  at  Athens. 

B.  H.  I,  i,  8. 
art,  learning  of  the  schools.    T. 

P.  I,  i,  6. 
availeable,    serviceable,    im- 
portant.   B.  H.  I,  ii,  44;   II, 

ii,  25. 

board,  jest.  T.  P.  n,  iv,  28. 

bobbe,  cheat,    r.  p.  Ill,  i,  4. 
busse,  kiss.   T.  p.  in,  v,  37. 

caroches,  coaches.  B.  H.  11, 

i,  129. 
cast-suite,  a  person  who  wears 

cast-off  garments.    T.  P.  i,  ii, 

II. 
codpiece-poynt,    a   lace  for 

fastening  a  portion  of  the  male 

attire.    T.  P.  in,  i,  15. 
Collops,  small  pieces.    B.  H. 

II,  i,  125. 
condition,    character.    T.  P. 

II,  ii,  94. 
confusion,   perdition.    T.   P. 

II,  iii,  54. 


cot-queane,  shrew,  hussy.  T. 

P.  I,  ii,  13. 
couze,    cousin;    here     means 

nephew.    T.  P.  in,  v,  32. 
cozen,  used  for  various  degrees 

of  relationship;  here,  for  niece. 

T.  P.  II,  iii,  39. 
cull,  embrace.    B.  H.  11,  i,  26. 
cunning,  skill.    T.  P.  11,  i,  75. 
cunny-berry,    rabbit-burrow. 

T.  P.  IV,  iii,  165. 

dry  beating,  a  sound  thrash- 
ing.   T.  P.  II,  vi,  116. 

eare-wrig,  flatterer,  parasite. 
B.  H.  II,  i,  13. 

fiddle  faddle,  trifle.  B.  H.  i, 

iii,  no. 
firks,  caprices.    B.   H.  in,  ii, 

floates,  flood  or  high  tide.  T. 
P.  I,  i,  65. 

fond,  foolish,  silly.  T.  P.  i, 
i,  9. 

foyle,  foil,  dull  background.  T. 
P.  n,  ii,  30. 

franks,  encloses  as  for  fatten- 
ing.   B.  H.  Ill,  ii,  198. 

gaily maufrey,  jumbled  mess. 
T.  P.  IV,  iii,  13. 


286 


^losf6?ar^ 


geere,  business,  affair.    T.  P. 

I,  ii,  9. 
goverment,  conduct.    T.  P. 

I,  i,  51. 
grammates,    rudiments.    B. 

H.  I,  iii,  125. 

hugger    mugger,    secretly. 
T.  P.y  III,  i,  19. 

impostumes,  abscesses.  B.  H. 

II,  iii,  135. 

index,  the  hand  with  pointing 
forefinger.   B.  H.  v,  i,  36. 

jayes,  trumpery  persons.  B.  H. 

11,  i,  136. 
jealous,  suspicious.   B.  H.  iii, 

i,  3- 

kennel,  gutter.   T.  P.  11,  vi, 
83- 

lik't,  pleased.  T.  P.  11,  vi,  107. 
luxury,    lust,    sensual    indul- 
gence.   T.  P.  IV,  iii,  9. 

magnifico,  magnate.    T.  P.i, 

ii,  141. 
May-game,    laughing-stock. 

T.  P.  I,  iv,  51. 
megrims,     whims     resulting 

from  nervous  headache.  B.H. 

in,  ii,  155. 
mew'd,  confined  as  in  a  cage 

for  birds.    T.  P.  v,  i,  I4. 
me^ved,  shed,  moult.    B.  H. 

II,  i,  45. 


moil,  mule.  B.  H.  iv,  ii,  17. 
motions,  puppet-shows.  T.  P. 
ii,iv,  53. 

nicenesse,  standing  on  cere- 
mony.   B.  H.  I,  iii,  52, 

nuntio,  papal  ambassador.  T. 
P.  II,  iii,  31. 

owing,  owning.  T.P.  i,  ii,  59. 

parmasent,  Parmesan  cheese. 

T.  P.  I,  iv,  67. 
partage,   share.    T.  P.  i,  ii, 

161. 
pavin,  a  stately  dance.    T.  P. 

I,  ii,  137. 

peevish,  trivial.  T.  p.  I,  i,  24. 
plurisie,  repletion.     T.  P.  iv, 

iii,  8. 
points,   laces.    B.  H.  iv,  ii, 

119. 
progress,  a  journey  of  state. 

B.  H.  V,  ii,  40. 
provinciall,    ?  of  Provence  j 

see  note.  B.  H.  i,  ii,  66. 

quality,  rank.     T.   p.   I,  ii, 

16. 
queane,  low  woman.    T.  P. 

IV,  iii,  25. 

rellashing,  tasting,  enjoying. 

B.  H.  IV,  i,  75. 
remark 't,  marked  out.  T.  P. 

II,  V,  10. 

resolute,  assured.  B.  H.  v. 
i,  42. 


6losf0ar^ 


287 


rest,  resolution.    T.  P.  iii,  75. 

rubs,  knobs  j  the  reference  is 
here  to  the  horns  that  grow 
on  the  forehead  of  the  de- 
ceived husband.  B.  H.  11,  i, 
28. 

sadnesse,  earnest.  T.  p.  I,  iii, 

84. 
schoole-points,       academic 

questions.    T.  P.  I,  i,  a. 
seeled,  with  eyelids  sewed  to- 
gether.   B.  H.  11,  ii,  3. 
sense,  physical  sensation.    B. 

H.  IV,  ii,  18. 
shrewd,  shrewish.    T.  P.  11, 

ii,  119. 
single,  single-minded.    T.  P. 

IV,  i,  57- 
skonce,  head.    T.  P.  in,  i,  3. 
springall,  a  youth.  B.  H.  11, 

i,  1 2  5    youthful,  B.   H.  iii, 

ii,  144. 
states,   dignitaries.    T.  P.  v, 

ii.  21. 


tackling,  weapon.  T.  P.  i,  ii,  i. 
tent,  probe.  B.  H.  iv,  iv,  42. 
thrum,  weave.    B.    H.   i,  ii, 

134- 
turtle,  dove.    B.  H.  v,  i,  145 

T.  P.  IV,  iv,  29. 
tutellage,  guardianship.  T.  P. 

i»  i,  53- 
tympany,  swelling.  B.  H.  11, 
i,  134. 

uds  sa'me,  God  save  me. 
T.  P.  I,  IV,  60. 

un-raunged,  ?  unclassified. 
T,  P.  i,i,  45. 

unspleen'd,  lacking  a  spleen 
and  therefore  of  a  naturally  pa- 
cific disposition.  T.  P.  i,  ii,  62. 

wagtails,  light  women.  B.H. 

II,  i,  136. 
white-boy,    favorite.    T.   P. 

I,  iv,  86. 
winkes,  shuts  her  eyes.  T.  P. 

III,  ii,  23. 


EASTWARD   HOE 

By  JoNSON,  Chapman  and  Marston 
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